


Rose

by DPS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Beast John, Beauty Sherlock, Beauty and the Beast AU, Experienced John, Fairytale elements, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Pride and Prejudice References, Sentiment, Shameless Smut, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPS/pseuds/DPS
Summary: Tale as old as time: no matter the circumstances, Sherlock and John will find one another. Even if one of them is a beast.“Step into the light,” Sherlock said quietly, watching as the creature pondered the demand before inching closer, the light beginning to draw over hideous features of not a man, but a beast. With fur, fangs, claws, and a body standing a head above Sherlock’s own. The creature's body was broad as an ox, with his head a mixture of a lion and a bear, with curling horns upon his head. When put together, he was a looming and terrifying nightmare.Sherlock closed his eyes fearfully and whispered, “I’ll stay.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the new Beauty and the Beast coming out in March, I wanted to write a version of the classic fairytale involving John and Sherlock! I know it's been done, but I am fascinated by the idea of John being the Beast and Sherlock- so often depicted as cold and heartless- as being the love and kindness in John's life (even if it is in a Sherlockian manner).  
> Cheers!  
> MC
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Beauty and the Beast, or any of its many adaptations

Once upon a time, in a faraway land,  
A young Prince lived in a beautiful castle,

He was of a handsome sort, with golden hair,  
And so dubbed the “Golden Prince.”  
Although he had almost everything his heart desired,  
The Prince was adventurous, risky, and battle-obsessed.

Discontented with living his life within sheltered castle walls,  
The young Prince trained and went to war,  
Finding a rush of adrenaline in every battle won for his thriving kingdom,

But soon, the Prince became hardened by the sights and sounds of battles waged for land, money, and power,

He lost sight of his once kindly nature,  
Turning to debauchery and alcohol to soothe his every woe,

The Prince was victorious on the battlefront, leading his men with skill and strategy beyond his years,

He was respected as a commanding officer and Prince,

But all his royal standing and victories could not save him forever, and the Prince did not escape unscathed from the war front.  
With his shoulder torn from an enemy’s blade, the prince barely survived.

But once the danger had passed, and he realized he would never be in the army again, the Prince became ever colder,  
Turning away from his loved ones in anger and resentment, until they too left.

Loveless and alone, the Prince lived off his war earned riches,  
Alone in the castle, wasting away and refusing company.

His only solace was found at the bottom of a bottle.

Then, one winter's night,  
An old beggar woman came to the castle  
And offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold.

Repulsed by her haggard appearance and lost in his own personal grief,  
The drunken Prince sneered at the gift,  
And turned the old woman away.

She warned him not to be deceived by appearances,  
For Beauty is found within.

But the Prince clenched his fists,  
His once kind face etched with anger  
And he dismissed her again,

At this, the old woman's ugliness melted away  
To reveal a beautiful Enchantress.

The Prince tried to apologize, but it was too late,  
For she had seen that there was no love or kindness left in his heart.

And as punishment,  
She transformed him into a hideous beast,  
And placed a powerful spell on the castle,  
And all who lived there.

Ashamed of his monstrous form,  
The beast concealed himself inside his castle,  
With a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.

The Rose she had offered,  
Was truly an enchanted rose,  
Which would bloom for many years.

If he could learn to love another,  
And earn their love in return  
By the time the last petal fell,  
Then the spell would be broken.

If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast  
For all time.

As the years passed,  
He fell into despair, and lost all hope,  
For who could ever learn to love a beast?

 


	2. Chapter 2

Once upon a time, in a land nearby, a boy was born with dark curly hair, and inquisitive virescent eyes that startled his mother and father the moment they laid eyes on their beautiful newborn.

For he was beautiful, in every way. As he grew, his attractive, if unique, features set him apart from other noble born children, and Sherlock was often teased in his lessons by his peers and his siblings, as they too were jealous of Sherlock’s beauty.

He stood tall and slim, his shining curls standing out and always appearing in perfect ringlets, as though acting as a halo around his head. His cheekbones refined, with a roman visage that made him appear princely in look and manner. Even as a child, Sherlock was a sight to behold with unmarred alabaster skin and a light flush to his cheeks, which spoke of a youthful glow.

But Sherlock, never one for vanity, was embarrassed by the whispers and jeers from his peers and siblings, and would often cry to his mother and father before bed, begging them to allow him to be homeschooled and escape the other children. 

“I stand out too much” Sherlock whimpered, a few more tears streaking down his face. “They call me a f-freak” he muttered, turning away.

“Sherlock” his mother would smile while brushing away his tears and turning his face towards hers gently, “many people are jealous of your outer beauty, but many more will be jealous of your inner beauty.”

Sherlock looked at her with a questioning gaze, and his father laughed, leaning over to place a kiss on his beloved son’s forehead, “your mother simply means that your inner beauty is far more precious and important. Don’t let the jealousy of other’s take that away.”

Sherlock shook his head in denial, “but Mycroft said that it is weak to succumb to sentiment. That it is better to only be logical.”

His mother and father looked at one another in disbelief before turning back to their dark-haired son: “No, darling” his mother responded with a little laugh, “for you must always have courage enough to be kind. Sometimes our greatest strength is our ability to feel empathy.”

As he grew, due to the endless love and support from his parents, Sherlock learned to ignore the harsh criticisms against his appearance, and grew more beautiful within as well.

But more than beautiful, he was intelligent. Witty without being cruel, as love had surrounded his upbringing with endless opportunities to grow into a kindhearted young man.

He was raised with all the privileges of his highborn status; the library within their estate was full to the brim with novels and texts about the world, and Sherlock read as often as he was able of lands and cultures far different from his own, he learned about science and great literature, adoring the connection between the physical and emotional worlds.

Being endlessly curious, Sherlock spent many hours pouring over texts and absorbing as much information as he could, living up to his label of genius. As soon as he was old enough, he began to play the violin, the instrument acting as a soothing remedy for the scorn he faced at school and social events, and allowing him to express himself through music, the crescendos and swirling notes tying together to form a story, and he was happy.

But, as in every story, not all days were joyous ones. One day his mother became ill, having caught an insidious virus that was moving through the land, and Sherlock was struck with an all-consuming fear.

Sherlock did everything he could think of, standing vigil at his mother’s bedside, going out late at night to find natural remedies, reading about antidotes and cures, but it was all for naught.

His mother died on a Tuesday in the middle of winter, while Sherlock held her hand.

 _“Sentiment”_ his brother had sneered to him, when he found Sherlock crying in an alcove, _“Sentiment is a trait found on the losing side.”_

But Sherlock merely looked at his brother in silence, remembering his mother’s words: “you must have the courage to be kind.”

So he stayed silent, and walked away.

Shortly thereafter, his father’s business dealings overseas failed, and Siger and his family were thrust out of polite society and left to defend for themselves, securing a small country home in Sussex while his father and Mycroft sought work. All their worldly belongings were sold off, except for a few trinkets, books and clothes. Sherlock even had to sell his beautiful violin.

Penniless and without his mother to guide him, Sherlock fell into despair, but he never lost hope that one day he would travel and see the world.

Sherlock sat on his new bed, trying to block out the sounds of his siblings arguing nearby. He opened the fairytale book his mother favored with stories that always involved a happy ending, trying to remember happier times.

 _Yes,_ he thought, _one day, I will be loved too._


	3. Chapter 3

Siger Holmes strode happily to the front gates of his country home, smiling widely at the race of children headed towards him- well, Sherlock and Katherine were racing, Mycroft following at a more leisurely pace than his younger siblings.

Mycroft was twenty-seven now, invested in helping his father with his business transactions and looking to become involved with the government sometime soon. Katherine, a loud girl who was constantly in motion had recently turned twenty-four and was searching for just the right man to marry. Sherlock scoffed at his sister's ramblings, but anyone could see the spark of interest in his eyes when his sister would start rambling about "true love." Sherlock, the youngest, had just reached the age of majority- twenty one. And yet, with Sherlock's curiosity and spark for life, one could mistake him for a bit younger, a youthful innocence surrounding the young man despite the cruelty he faced from others. 

“Papa! Papa, you’re home!” Sherlock panted once he reached the iron gate, practically leaping into his Father’s arms, “I missed you! Mycroft wouldn’t conduct any more experiments with me” he sent a short glare to his elder sibling who had just joined their gathering.

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes in annoyance, “Sherlock, honestly-“

“Papa,” shouted Katherine shrilly, “what did you bring us?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his droll sister’s priorities _, honestly,_ he wondered, _isn’t it enough that Papa is now home?_

But Katherine and even Mycroft were looking to their father expectantly, used to their privileged life that was no more outside of these small gifts, and their father indulged them with a sigh of fond exasperation.

“Yes, yes, alright. At least I know what I am good for to you lot! Here you go” He announced, opening his case with a flourish and pulling out a beautiful dark haired doll that had a likeness to Katherine. She promptly squealed at the gift, knocking Sherlock to the side in order to grab the doll quickly and begin examining its features, ignoring Sherlock who was scowling at her self absorbed nature.

Sherlock’s attention was drawn back to the case as his Papa pulled out a beautiful umbrella, with an oaken curved handle and a beautiful design that seemed to be perfect for the rainy days they often experienced in the small town of Sussex. Mycroft looked delighted despite himself, forgetting his usual cold exterior in favor of examining his new gift.

“Thank you Father” he said in his usual pompous tone, and Sherlock snorted, earning him a glare. Before uttering another word, Mycroft and Katherine strode off towards the house, basking in their new presents and leaving Siger and Sherlock alone at the gate in the chill of the oncoming winter.

“Figures” Sherlock sighed, earning him a quick grin from Siger who was watching two of his beloved children walk away without so much as an embrace.

“Alright then, now for you” Siger announced, beginning to dig away in his case once more.

“Papa, you didn’t have to get me-“ Sherlock was cut off when a book was thrust quite suddenly under his nose. He grasped it by its leather binding, moving it away from his face in order to see the inscription on the cover clearly.

 _Beekeeping: The Art of Bees_ by Philip Smith. Sherlock gasped as he read the cover, unable to believe his father had found it when Sherlock himself had been searching for over three years for an edition.

“Papa, where did you….?”

“Oh, I met a man on my travels who was a zoologist, and I saw the book sitting on his shelf. We bargained for it, and I was able to finally get you a present you actually want,” Siger smiled at his son’s shocked reaction, reaching out to pet down his recalcitrant curls.

Sherlock began to shake his head, looking up to his father with a beseeching expression, “Papa, I cannot take this. It must have cost a significant sum, and I know we cannot afford such-“

“Sherlock, I wanted you to have this. You never ask for anything beyond your science equipment, which was handed down from the university and is mostly broken. I know money is tight” he sighed softly, unable to deny the truth of the claim to his beloved child, “and that we had to move to this small house from the estate outside London, but my prospects are getting better. Money is coming in now from my many investments, and soon we may be able to move back to London!”

His Father sounded so sure that Sherlock could not argue with him any longer. He smiled and wrapped his arms around his father once more, giving a quick squeeze before darting off again; calling back to his father “I have to get back to my experiment, or the mold cultures will be ruined!”

Siger simply shook his head with smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched Sherlock run back into the house with his stormy eyes gleaming and long curls bouncing in the winter wind.

* * *

 

"Papa, do you have to leave again so soon?" Sherlock asked, sitting at the kitchen table with his beekeeping book and watching sadly as his father repacked the bags that had just been emptied a fortnight before. 

"You know I do, Sherlock. I have to go to this investment opportunity, but know I will miss you" he replied, looking up to his son that was currently staring out the window with a downtrodden expression. Siger did not wish to leave his son looking so unhappy, "Sherlock, you didn't tell me what gift you want for when I return." 

Sherlock shook his head, "I do not need anything Papa, the book you brought me is fascinating and more than enough." 

"Please Sherlock, your brother and sister have already told me what they wish for. You can have anything, a new suit perhaps? You're growing like a weed these days!" He exclaimed, watching as an embarrassed flush rose over Sherlocks cheeks with a grin. Sherlock never liked being reminded of how much he was growing, it made him self-conscious to be the tallest person in a room where he was unable to hide. But he was quickly becoming a man, as Siger well knew, and one day Sherlock would become the best of them all, of that he was sure. 

"Come now bee" Siger prompted with an impish grin, watching as Sherlock ducked his head behind the book he was reading with an embarrassed _"Papa! I'm too old for such names!"_

Siger gave a hearty chuckle at Sherlock's shy mannerisms, and looked at him pointedly until Sherlock gave up with a huffed "fine, you win. I would like a rose, if you have the means to obtain one." Siger tilted his head in confusion at the odd request, but Sherlock made no further explanations, and returned to his reading, sipping his tea gently to ward off the chill.

Truthfully, Sherlock wanted a rose because they were beautiful. Their simplicity and deep colors reminded Sherlock of the beautiful aspects of life, like his mother, and his books. He never knew why those particular flowers were so dear to him, only that he had always felt pulled to them in ways he didn't fully comprehend.

"Very well, I am off," his papa announced. Mycroft and Katherine materialized in the doorway to say their goodbyes and remind him once more about their gifts- a new pair of gloves and some fine lace. Sherlock stood last, and went to hug his father, breathing in his embrace and trying to catalogue the sensation until he returned. 

"Goodbye Papa" he said quietly, releasing the man and helping him collect his bags and tie them to the horse's saddlebag. Sherlock glanced once more over his father's figure, making sure he was bundled enough for the cold ride through the night. He Sherlock was satisfied, he helped his father up onto the saddle. 

"Goodbye bee" Siger responded softly once he was seated on horseback, stroking Sherlock's hair once more before spurring the family's horse, Philip, into movement down the dirt pathway and through the gate. Sherlock ignored the sense of foreboding and went back inside to his tea and chapter on collecting honey. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Siger’s business dealings in London had gone quite well, and he was headed home with the news of a more secure financial future for his family.

During his travels to London, he was able to obtain the lace for Katherine and new gloves for Mycroft, but finding a place to buy a rose at this time of the year was practically unheard of. Still, Siger searched in every village he came across, hoping to please his youngest and, within the confines of this thoughts, favorite child.

Sherlock reminded him so much of his wife, through his temperament and intelligent wit, often offset by his natural kind tendencies towards others.

Weary after a long day of travel, Siger realized with a sudden start that he had traveled off the established road, and had strayed from his intended path home.

Shrugging, he continued on forwards, ignoring the loud huffing from Philip and his slowed trot, indicating the creature’s nervousness. After an indiscernible amount of time, he pulled Philip to a stop outside a wall built in stone at the edge of the path, with iron gates reaching three times his height and curving ominously around the entrance to what appeared to be a run down castle.

Encouraging his horse to move closer to the dreary gates and castle, Siger spotted a beautiful white gazebo just beyond the doors of the castle, maybe a hundred yards ahead. The gazebo did not fit the architecture of the gloomy and Gothic castle, but rather stood out as a snowflake against a grey sky. Squinting his eyes to get a clearer look, the enclosure appeared to have plants of some kind.

 _‘How in the world are flowers growing at this time of the year?’_ Siger wondered to himself for a moment, the question giving him pause. After a few minutes of observing the surroundings, and feeling confident that he was alone, Siger dismounted Philip and pushed on the huge iron gate roughly, hearing a screech that indicated it had not been used in many years.

“Stay here Philip” Siger ordered absentmindedly, moving past the small opening in the gate and ignoring Philip’s distressed _neighing_ as he cautiously moved forward on the stone pathway leading to the castle, his boots crunching the untouched fallen snow.

It was like he was in a dream, moving unthinkingly up the pathway towards the gazebo, the plants appearing alive and well despite the fact they were in no way sheltered or enclosed from the winter chill.

Moving his gaze briefly from the plants, Siger peered at the stone edifice in wonderment.

 _‘It’s even more imposing up-close’_ Siger noted with a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the wind. Shaking himself from his gawking, he turned to the gazebo and walked cautiously inside, feeling an intruder although he did not see any signs of life.

Looking about the many plants, he spotted a white rose, completely pure form blemishes and beautiful, despite the snow whipping around only feet away. The rose was a part of a bush full of white roses, but this one was the largest and most perfectly formed.

Siger smiled at the thought of the joy on Sherlock’s face when he brought him the beautiful specimen, and drew a small knife from his boot to cut the stem from the rose bush. As he approached, he felt a shiver run up his spine and he looked up to view his surroundings once more. At seeing no one once again, Siger turned his attention back to the rose and with a swift cut, he held the newly cut rose in his hand.

A creak sounded behind him, and Siger whipped around, his heart racing as he peered at a huge man standing hunched in the shadows. As the man drew closer, Siger realized he was not a man at all. He was covered in fur, and he had horns upon his head and claws on his hands and feet. He stood at least twenty hands high, and his face, if it could even be described in such terms, was twisted in rage, his blue eyes flashing in discontentment. 

“You-You’re not-“ Siger gasped out, losing his speech at the furious expression on the _thing’s_ face, his large fangs pulled pack in a snarl and his body crouched to attack.

“I’m not human?” The creature finished with a low growl, and Siger nodded in complete terror, frozen on the spot, still holding the rose.

“No, and you’re trespassing. Do you know what I do to people who trespass?” The creature stepped closer, and Siger bumped his back into the rose bush, realizing with a shock of panic that he had nowhere to run.

“I-I am sorry, sir, I had no idea. I never would have-“

A roar cut off Siger’s shaking apology from the creature, and Siger was suddenly lifted up by the back of his cloak and was dragged, choking, towards the doors of the imposing castle. 

“I will teach you what happens to those who would trespass or STEAL FROM ME!” The creature shouted with a thundering roar, and Siger tried to loosen his cloak to stop choking, but the creature snatched him up by the throat in the next instant, his huge paws encircling his neck, and then everything was black.

* * *

Sherlock was running errands in Sussex, their family needing eggs and some bread. The maid volunteered to go, but Sherlock claimed the need for a bit of exercise and went in her stead. Truly, Sherlock needed time away from his prying brother and sister. They were so wrapped up in material goods that they never appreciated anything, and Sherlock felt smothered by their incessant whining.  

"Have a bad day, love?" A tenor voice sounded from nearby, and Sherlock whipped around to find James Moriarty standing just outside the bakery he had recently vacated, eating an apple and smirking at Sherlock as if he was harboring a secret. 

Sherlock shook his head, not wanting to engage the oftentimes off-putting man, but Moriarty was not to be persuaded. He slithered up to Sherlock's side and slid a questing hand around his waist, ignoring Sherlock's flinch of discomfort at the intimate action.

"Come now Sherlock" he sighed as if Sherlock was letting him down by not confiding in him,"you and I both know that's not quite true." 

Sherlock sighed at the implication that the two of them shared anything, and responded, "just a bit down today, Mr. Moriarty, but I am sure I will be alright soon." 

Moriarty made a face at Sherlock's use of his formal title and scoffed, "Now, now Sherlock, we don't have any need to have formalities between us. After all, we are the two resident geniuses" he declared with a devious grin that didn't reach his cold eyes, "it's only natural that we get to know one another better." 

Sherlock shivered at the implication. He may be innocent in the ways of the world, but he was not blind. He moved away from Moriarty's arm, "I thank you for the complement, but I am unworthy of being compared to your" Sherlock winced, "genius. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should be getting home with the shopping." 

Moriarty watched Sherlock like a hawk, his eyes darting up and down his body in silence until he deemed himself satisfied, "all right, lovely, have it your way. I'll be seeing you, Sherlock" he purred lecherously, and then turned and disappeared into the daily crowd. 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was walking up the dirt pathway home, still mulling over his encounter with Moriarty, when he saw Philip running towards the stables in a panic. Shocked, Sherlock dropped the errands and ran over to the horse.

“Philip! Shh, it’s alright” Sherlock placated with calming gestures, waiting for Philip to stop neighing and bucking in panicked bursts. Once Philip had calmed with Sherlock stroking his chestnut mane, he realized that there was no rider on top of the creature.

“No, oh no, Philip! Where is my father?” Sherlock asked in a gasp, looking towards the forest where the horse had come running. Making up his mind with a nod, Sherlock mounted Philip and spurred him into movement with a kick and an ordered, “run!”

As Philip raced back towards the forest, he prayed that his father would be safe wherever he was.

After an hour or so, Sherlock found a split in the road, and Philip began steering them to the more open, smoothly laid pathway on instinct. Sherlock stilled the horse and thought- if Philip was turning away from the more treacherous path on instinct, perhaps that is where his father is, and Philip was spooked away for some reason.

“Go Philip, this way” Sherlock commanded, pulling the reigns to the left and ignoring Philip’s nervous neighing. Searching his surroundings, Sherlock noticed that the farther they ventured into the forest, the darker their surroundings became.

Instead of becoming frightened, Sherlock was intrigued by the lack of wildlife, and the sickening twisting of the trees as they continued down the rocky pathway.

After about a mile, Sherlock viewed an edge of grey in the distance. As he galloped closer, he realized that it was a large stonewall with a rusted iron gate. Just beyond, down a stone pathway a huge castle stood, decorated by gargoyles and dark flying buttresses with sharpened stone decorating the outer walls. The dark grey against the darkened night sky makes the castle seem completely deadened, as if no one had ever resided in the cold building with it uninhabitable atmosphere.

Dismounting Philip, he stared at the horse and then peered back to the castle, “Wait here Philip, but if something happens, run home. Mycroft will discover our whereabouts,” he instructed the horse, knowing that Philip would understand on an instinctual level.

Sherlock moved forward, slipping past the slightly opened gate and following his Father’s footsteps in the snow, cataloging their gait and stride up to the gazebo. There, he spotted the fallen white rose, and strode over to pick it up, turning it around and wondering why such a beautiful flower had been cut. And, how such flowers could grow in the midst of winter in the first place.

 _Odd, isn’t it?_ Sherlock thought, so wrapped up in his deductions about the flower in his grasp, that he failed to notice the light breathing taking place behind him. But, when he turned, he saw no one, but the door to the castle was standing open in dark invitation.

Sherlock, still clutching the white rose, turned slowly and stared at the door, the silent challenge lying in his wake.

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock walked forward, seeing the struggle that had taken place in the tracks and smudges in the snow line. _Papa had been dragged sideways, clutched by the neck, through the doorway. Need more data._

Shivering from the implications of the struggle, Sherlock pushed the castle door open further, viewing the inside of the castle for the first time. The open entrance way was huge and empty of everything but some stray pieces of furniture, overturned. The marble floors and dim chandeliers covered in dust and cobwebs, indicating a lack of use for many years. There was a grand staircase directly in front of him, and a few passages leading off to other places in the castle.

Rather than indicate his presence quite yet, Sherlock searched for breaks in the dust line to indicate which way his father had been taken. The carpet on the stairs seemed to be worn from use recently, and so Sherlock crept up the steps, turning randomly to the right to continue his search.

That castle was huge, and while it appeared uninhabited, the deeper he explored down the winding hallways, the more signs of life he was visible. Chairs and tables lined the halls from when the castle was still in use, but most of the places on the wall where paintings had been hung were now missing.

After a while of meandering, Sherlock found a winding staircase made of stone and wood, largely uninteresting compared to the rest of the castle. The feature of interest, however, was in the nail markings on the wooden door, as if someone has been dragged through against their will.

There was blood staining the fingernail markings from the force of the scratches and when Sherlock touched the blood, it was recently dried and cold.

It hadn't been there long.

Decision made, Sherlock went up the stone steps, up the curving passageway with a sense of foreboding in his heart. He forced his legs to move anyways, the thought of his Papa in turmoil motivating his actions.

He heard a light cough come from below, and he swung around to see who was there. No one. This journey was becoming curiouser by the minute.

He heard the noise again, this time followed by an exaggerated _shhhh_. Sherlock turned around and came face to face with a candelabra, only this one had animated features and was- _talking?_

“Hello mate, good to see you,” the candelabra spoke from his shelf on the staircase in a jovial tone, “but what are you doing here? The Master of this place will not be happy,” he finished more carefully.

Sherlock, who was often told by his mother that magic existed but had dismissed it as a child’s fantasy, stared open mouthed at the amazing sight before him. A candelabra was _talking_ to him.

“I, that is, I am looking for my father,” Sherlock said after a moment to orient his thoughts, and the candlestick holder flared his flames in recognition, “yes! The old man was taken prisoner just this-“

“Prisoner!” Sherlock gasped, not waiting to hear anymore before bolting up the stairs, coming to an empty room containing what appeared to be cells on either side of him.

“S-Sherlock?” Coughed a voice to the left, and Sherlock ran forward in relief at his father’s voice. Grasping his hands through the bars, Sherlock hissed.

“Papa, your hands are cold as ice already! We need to get you out of here,” Sherlock said desperately, looking around for something to break the lock on the dungeon door and ignoring his father’s coughing protests.

“Sherlock, listen to me, you need to get out of here. Leave me, I’ve lived my life….”

“No! No, I am not leaving here without you!” Sherlock yelled in desperation, hands clutching his hair in fistfuls out of frustration, forcing himself to think but struggling due to his heightened emotional state.

“Sherlock please, bee, you don’t understand-“ Siger was cut off by a roar, Sherlock fell to the ground and twisted his body, looking for the source of the angered roar. Sherlock’s heart was racing from fear, and he desperately tried to pull apart the cell bars, but it was no use.

“Who dares enter my castle?” The creature growled from the doorway, his presence masked in shadows, but the imposing figure was not lost to Sherlock’s eyes and he gulped in fear.

“I’ve come for my father,” Sherlock announced with a courage he did not feel, “how could you imprison him in this way? He is freezing, he might die!” He shouted, his temper rising at the thought of his father’s needless punishment.

“Your father stole from me! He is getting better than he deserves” the creature in darkness snarled lowly, “He will never leave this tower!”

As the beast watched the young man from the shadows, an idea came to his mind. A dangerous one to even contemplate, but he had to try. 

Sherlock watched the shadows carefully as the inhuman creature seemed to think for a moment, “that is, unless you would be willing to take his place.”

“Sherlock, no. I forbid you from-“

“ _QUIET!_ You will stay here with me, forever. That is my deal, your life for his.”

Sherlock paused for a moment. He did not want to stay, but his Papa would surely die if he did not. Sherlock looked into his father’s eyes, wishing that there were a better alternative but knowing that wishing was rarely productive.

“Step into the light,” Sherlock said quietly, watching as the creature pondered the demand before inching closer, the light beginning to draw over hideous features of not a man, but a beast. With fur, fangs, claws, and a body standing a head above Sherlock’s own. The creature's body was broad as an ox, with his head a mixture of a lion and a bear, with curling horns upon his head. When put together, he was a looming and terrifying nightmare.

Sherlock closed his eyes fearfully and whispered, “I’ll stay.”

Suddenly, the prison door was wrenched open and two more house hold objects, a coat hanger and a chair, came out of the shadows and prop up his father, holding his protesting body against the back of the chair.

“Take him to the carriage and then to his village. NOW.” The beast boomed, the light dancing over his snarling face, and Sherlock was spurred into action from his shock.

“Papa! Papa wait, please!” Sherlock begged, but the chair was already moving down the stairs, away from Sherlock, his father’s protests muffled by the chair's arm covering his mouth.

Sherlock ran to the window, and only moments later his father was dumped unceremoniously into a black carriage resembling a spider, being whisked away, away from Sherlock.

“You-“ Sherlock choked on a sob, “you didn’t even let me say goodbye.”

The beast watched him grieve, his face expressionless except for the flicker of unease that passed over it for an instant.

“Come with me, I’ll take you to the room you’ll be staying in” the beast instructed, and Sherlock looked over with a confused expression.

“But-but I thought…” Sherlock trailed off, gazing around the cold cell, and the beast huffed in exasperation.

“Do you _want_ to stay in the tower?”

“Well no, but I-“

“Then follow me.”

Sherlock followed the beast back down the spiral staircase, observing his capture closely for anything he could notice. Beyond the tattered pants and velvet cloak, his master’s mannerisms- walking on hind legs, ability to communicate, and his use of clothing- indicated to Sherlock that he is human like. Just like the candelabra.

Finally, after an agonizing walk in complete silence in the eerie castle shrouded in darkness, the beast turned to gaze down at Sherlock. Sherlock held his gaze as long as he was able, before looking away.

_The beast had light blue eyes, a hardness reflected in them as if cast in steel._

“You will join me for dinner. This is not a request” the beast demanded in his usual low tone, with a growl barely hidden underneath the tone, and Sherlock pulls himself up to his full height to reply.

“I will not,” Sherlock retorted, staring at the beast and feeling triumph at seeing the flicker of confusion run through the beast’s human-like eyes.

The beast studied him for a moment longer, the anger building in his tense posture, “fine, but if you don’t eat with me, then you won't eat at all. You can go ahead and _STARVE_ ,” he roars with complete abandon, the walls echoing from his discontent, and Sherlock was terrified.

Running into his “room,” he slammed the door, and heard it lock from the outside.

 _Just another prison then_ , he thought sullenly, looking at the ornate room around him that was once beautiful, but now smells of stale air and too many years unused. The realization of his dire situation occurs to Sherlock in that instant, and he couldn't stem the hot tears from spilling over his eyes and down his cheeks.

He sat down on the bed, and buried his face in his hands, feeling utterly hopeless as the tears dripped down.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Sherlock woke to the sound of whispers coming from the corner of the bedroom. Sherlock had slept on the bedcovers, having fallen into an exhausted slumber after hours of choking back tears. 

"Shh, we shouldn't wake the poor dear, he's had a fright." 

"Yes, I know Mrs. Hudson, but I still believe that we should explain some things before the master wakes up."

"SHH! Oh, I see him stirring. Good morning dear!"

The maternal voice was coming from just over the side of the bed, and as Sherlock blearily scoots over and looked, he saw a pink and white ceramic teapot smiling up at him as if this was the most normal interaction in the world. 

"Hello, love," she said kindly in a cooing voice one uses to placate children, her top bouncing as she hops closer to Sherlock, "I know you've had a fright at the hands of the master, but lets get a spot of tea and some biscuits in you so you feel good as new." 

Sherlock shook his head, disbelieving that this wasn't a dream, except-

"You," Sherlock said, pointing to the candelabra, "I saw you yesterday." 

The candelabra nodded by bending his torso in half, somehow looking apologetic on his small, silver face, "Yes, sorry about that, it's just the master is a bit-tetchy sometimes" he ended with a grimace, indicating that the master was a bit worse than just tetchy. 

"Never you mind that right now, come here, tell me your name," the teapot demanded in a surprisingly forceful voice, and Sherlock was inclined to listen. He leaned down and took the proffered teacup gratefully, blowing on the hot beverage and nearly dropping it at hearing a child's voice giggle, "hey! That tickles!" 

"What-" Sherlock began before turning over the tiny tea-cup, seeing an expression of delight on what can only be a little girl's face, with long eyelashes and cheeks that stuck out of the ceramic cup, highlighted by her cheerful countenance and smile, "hello there, who are you?" Sherlock asked politely despite his growing feelings of panic, remembering his mother's admonishments about the importance of always being kind to children above all others. 

"Hi! I'm Rosie!" The teacup chirped happily, "what's your name?"

"I-uh-I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Ohh, okay, well I am the master's ward, whatever that means," she babbled, and Sherlock was struck by the fact that this teacup, this teacup used to be a _human!_

 _Oh God._ Sherlock stood up, deftly depositing the teacup- Rosie, his mind supplied- on the floor before he began pacing back and forth. 

"Am I going insane? I've only been here one day!" Sherlock exclaimed in confusion, and the teapot and candelabra laughed. 

"No mate, this is the reality around here. You'll get used to it I'm sure," the candelabra soothed, but Sherlock was not in the state of mind to hear it. 

"I've been taken from my home, my papa, and forced to live here, imprisoned by a beast!" Sherlock said hysterically, his voice rising. 

The teapot hopped over, and looked up at Sherlock with a pitying expression, "I know this is a lot to take in right now, but the master isn't entirely what he seems right away. You just need to get to know him-"

"I don't want to get to know him!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, hands grasping at his arms and feeling a chill, despite the fact he was still wearing all his winter layers from last night, "I don't want anything to do with him!" 

On the verge of tears, and blinking them away, Sherlock sat back down on the bed feeling completely alone. 

* * *

 

In another part of the castle, John watched on his magic mirror as Sherlock claimed that he "didn't want anything to do with him." John's eyes tightened at that, and he watched Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade comfort the young man who was facing a life of imprisonment.

 _'At your hands'_ his brain supplied, unhelpfully. 

John watched for a minute longer before putting down his mirror and beginning to pace agitatedly through his destroyed chambers. It wasn't his fault that the little welp had offered himself in place of his father, it was _his_ mistake for being so selfless. Let him regret his choice. But John knew, in the deep recesses of his mind that had not been destroyed by alcohol, that Sherlock's sacrifice was a noble one. 

A sacrifice a soldier would have made. 

_You're not a soldier anymore, John Watson, you're a beast._

The only person in the castle John could be prevailed upon to be kind to in the slightest was his ward, Rosie, who was unfortunately involved in the spell that fateful night, along with the few servants who had remained loyal to John right before his transformation. Truthfully, John loved Rosie, but he feared his beastly form and the damage he could do to her, so she was not allowed to be in the same room as him, period.

It had been over seven years since the transformation, and he had not talked to his darling Rosie in all those years. He didn't want her to see him this way.

_A Monster._

Between Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly, Rosie was never wanting for people to love and care for her, so John's presence was unneeded. 

Before the transformation, before he was stabbed in the war, an old army mate of his Lord Anderson had come to him with his bastard child in tow, asking John to take her on as his ward, to educate and love her as a father would. John reluctantly agreed, and Anderson left without ever looking back. Rosie, only two at the time, had instantly wrapped John around her finger, and for the Prince, going back to war after meeting Rosie was hard. 

But he did, because of his need for the adrenaline and a sense of purpose. And then he was stabbed. 

Two years later he had a rambunctious toddler around the castle who he couldn't stand to be around, due to his self-loathing and alcoholic tendencies, and he sent her to Molly for her education and care on the opposite side of the castle, ignoring her cries for him and shutting himself away, refusing to even share meals with the child he loved. 

And then the curse. And now, Sherlock. 

John didn't know what to make of the young man, he was beautiful, that was certain. John had never been attracted to the same form as himself, but Sherlock was ethereal with his tall body, lean but muscled frame that was evident even under layers, and his virescent eyes that shown with his intellect. His face was picturesque and seemed to be carved from marble, and John had never hated how beastly he was until Sherlock's face was twisted in horror, looking at his revolting face. 

John saw a glowing light out of the corner of his eye, and turned to face the deep red rose hidden under the glass case, glimmering in the darkness as a constant reminder of John's cruelty and loss of kindness. It was beginning to wilt, turning darker with many petals already rotting at the bottom of the encasement. A reminder: John had until the first kiss of spring to fall in love and be loved in return. Once all the petals had fallen, all hope was lost.

John turned to the window, watching the snow fall and wishing, more than ever before, that he had never been turned into a beast. 


	7. Chapter 7

“That’s alright dearie, you finish your cry, and then we will see about getting you some proper food,” the teapot, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson, soothed.

“I-I’m not” sniffling, Sherlock sat up, “I’m not _crying_.” He spat out the word as if it had personally offended him, memories of arguments with Mycroft popping into his mind: “Stop being so sensitive Sherlock, honestly, you’re such a sniveling child. Mummy’s baby” he would sneer, and Sherlock would flush and deny it, marching away to lick his wounds privately.

Now, however, there wasn’t anywhere for him to go, and it seemed he was surrounded by adults, and a child, who wanted nothing more than to help him, but he simply could not wrap his head around the reality of his situation.

He was a prisoner, in a magic castle, with a teapot and a candelabra and a teacup and a beast. His deductions could not help him here. While we was accustom to observing human behavior, this was outside of his realm of expertise by a long shot.

“Of course you’re not crying, love,” Mrs. Hudson placated with a tone suggesting she didn’t believe it for an instant, “come here, then, let’s get you settled.”

Sherlock sat gingerly on the floor, wrapping his long legs underneath him as Mrs. Hudson pointed to the glass of water on the nightstand. Sherlock obediently drank the liquid, feeling much better as he was getting dehydrated.

"What happened to my horse, Philip?" Sherlock asked guilty, having forgotten about his horse in the chaos. 

"We caught him, he is in the stables safe and sound," Lestrade answered, and Sherlock gave his thanks. At least with Philip he would have a part of home with him, even though now Mycroft would be unable to track where Sherlock had gone.

“Now, something to wear” Mrs. Hudson said, “go over to the wardrobe and pick something out, everything should be in your size.”

Sherlock was about to ask how that was possible but then he remembered- _Magic_. He went to the wardrobe and pulled out a purple shirt that felt soft and silky, reminding him of his wardrobe when his family was still wealthy. He then he pulled out a pair of black pants, which seemed to be tailored to his exact size, and Sherlock was utterly astounded.

Blinking himself back to reality after a moment of shock, he found a pair of black underclothes and, blushingly, tucked them swiftly under his arm.

He moved over to the privacy screen and began undressing, putting on the new clothing and ignoring the chattering of the objects- that is,  _people_ -just beyond the screen.

When he stepped out, the candelabra, or Greg Lestrade as he had introduced himself, whistled.

“Oi, you look great! Doesn’t he look great Mrs. Hudson?” Lestrade asked Mrs. Hudson, who hopped up and down in agreement, voicing her agreement.

Rosie, who had been unordinary quiet for a girl of four so far, began to shout “Sh’lock! Sh’lock!” Over and over to get his attention, so he walked over to pick up the teacup, ignoring Lestrade’s comments.

“Yes Rosie?” He asked, feeling ridiculous talking to a teacup, but doing so anyways because he didn’t want to hurt the little girl’s feelings.

“Can we go play now?” Rosie asked sweetly, and Sherlock didn’t have it in his heart to ignore the girl.

“Very well, we can play, but I am not sure I am able to leave the room yet,” Sherlock commented, biting his lip in indecision. On the one hand, he wanted to explore his new-enchanted prison, but on the other, he could do without another run in with the beast.

But, looking at Rosie’s ceramic face with the features of a cherub, Sherlock knew he must abide.

“Alright, let’s go,” Sherlock remarked, walking to the door and, taking a deep breath, opened it and stepped out into the darkened hallway. He peered nervously in both directions and, not having seen anyone, strode forward holding Rosie and allowing Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to follow.

* * *

 John awoke to an extraordinarily sunny day, normally this far to the coast it was grey and gloomy in England, but today a sliver of sunlight was streaming through the windows of his tattered curtains. John sighed in annoyance, the sunlight reminded him of better days.

His battalion, a brave group of men who fought together in the day and drank together at night. John had lost many of those men, and realized that his deep bonds to them all caused him to be too emotional, too weakened, so he hardened himself. No more conversations about home, their wives, their children or their lovers. No more deep bonds that flow between soldiers who risk their lives and hide little because of it. John became their commanding officer and prince, and nothing more. It was better that way. 

And look at where he is now. 

A soft cough came from the doorway, and John turned his massive head to see Molly hop her way into his chambers, her clock face showing the time to be a little past eleven in the morning.

“I apologize for waking you sir, I just wanted to make sure you were aware that your new- _ahem,_ ” Molly paused to think for a moment, “your new guest is awake and has met the rest of the staff, and is now down in the kitchens.”

 _Oh Molly_ , John thought sadly with just a hint of annoyance. Molly was the kindest of the household staff and, as such, was in charge of his whereabouts or lack thereof. And now, she was here to give him news he didn’t want, and she was obviously quaking with fear.

John didn’t blame her, he lost his temper with all his staff members practically on a daily basis. But regardless, he wished to be alone.

“Leave me Molly. And as long as he stays on the grounds, he may go wherever he wished, as long as he stays out of the West Wing.” The _so he cannot find me_ goes unsaid but not unheard, and Molly clicks the door softly shut behind her.

John rolled off of his disheveled and ripped bedclothes and grabbed the magic mirror.

“Show me Sherlock,” he commanded, and all of a sudden he saw a picture of the young man, wearing new clothing and giggling at Rosie who was bathing in a soapy tub in the kitchen while Mrs. Hudson admonished her for splashing everywhere.

 _Domestic_ , John thought with annoyance and, if he is being honest, a hint of jealousy. John missed Rosie and her delighted smile, from what he can remember, she was the last person to smile at him, over seven years ago now.

John slammed the mirror down, breathing heavily, unwilling to look at such a scene while he was locked away, even if it is self-imposed. John looked down and saw his paws with the razor sharp claws attached, and curled his hands into remnants of fists.

Sherlock was his last hope, his last chance to find love. And of course, Sherlock was charming, beautiful, and, worst of all, kind.

One day after his imprisonment, after being taken away from his father, and he was playing happily with John’s pseudo-daughter while becoming friendly with his staff and, if he is being honest, the only people who every truly loved him, despite how cruel he was to them.

John shook his head, hanging it in despair. What was he going to do? He needed a battle-plan, but first, he needed advice.

Cringing to himself, John stood up and went to seek out the only woman who had ever truly been like a mother to him.  

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Mrs. Hudson, I need your help,” John had waited until everyone left the kitchen, preferring to only receive personal advice from Mrs. Hudson and discretely.

She smiled softly, her teapot expression delicate, and she indicated that he should sit and tell her the issue. That was why John always appreciated Mrs. Hudson, she rarely treated him like a beast, rather, she treated him like the intemperate son she had never had. John's eyes stung for a moment before he pushed those thoughts away. 

He stared at Mrs. Hudson more a moment, and wished she could just read his mind so he didn't have to ask for the humiliating advice. She just watched him, an ever knowing expression upon her face, and John sighed, leaning his head into his paws to hide his face from her gaze. 

“I just-I don’t know how-why is he so frustrating?” John complained to Mrs. Hudson, who chuckled and hopped onto the table so she could see John face to face.

“Look up at me, there you are. Listen master," she said, always making 'master' sound like the motherly endearment 'sweetie,' to Johns utter consternation,"the best plan of action to begin wooing Sherlock is to be kind” she suggested, but John scoffed in refusal, turning his face away. 

"I am not trying to 'woo' him Mrs. Hudson" He growled lowly in warning, looking back to her with a glare, but Mrs. Hudson only arched her eyebrow and John blushed beneath his fur looked down to twiddle his claws. 

“Kind? He was not kind when he turned away my request for dinner! Or said he didn’t even want to try and know me,” John knew he was being petulant, and that it was his own fault that Sherlock didn’t like him, but he still wished he could do something, anything, to try and make this work. Sherlock might be his- _their_ -only hope. 

“Well, dear, you could try to figure out some of his interests. He seems to be a bit of a bookworm; so introducing him to your library might be a strong step forward. Ask him to join you for meals, don't force the dear," she said, "also stop treating him like a prisoner, and treat him like a guest,” she suggested tentatively, not looking to invoke the ire of the beast, but wanting to build some form of bond between Sherlock and John as soon as possible.

She could already see how good they would be for one another. Sherlock was shy and kind, with love overflowing to offer in his eyes. If John could win his respect, and friendship, it would not be out of the question for the sensitive young man to fall for the beast. 

John merely grunted and swept away through the doorway, disappearing without another word.

* * *

 “This castle is amazing!” Sherlock exclaimed as Molly and Lestrade showed him around on his second day in the enchanted castle, taking in the different ballrooms, guest rooms, and paintings that were still in working order. Much of the castle had been destroyed by its master, who seemed to struggle with anger management, but pieces of the castle were left untouched. The history of the place was astounding, predating the Protestant Reformation, it had gorgeous Catholic artwork and classical elements of grandeur such as huge chandeliers in every room and sky high ceilings that had been mainly abandoned due to practicality.

Sherlock could spend months here and not have explored every part. It was fascinating, and new, and exciting.

Sherlock’s mind was racing, trying to absorb the new information and catalogue it in his mind palace, which he wanted to restructure too look similar to this castle with more light and a slightly cheerier atmosphere.

Sherlock’s genius could occasionally be overwhelming to the young man, so he used the mind memory technique to sort out his thoughts and memories and then store them away. He can close and open the doors, or memories, at will.

It was one of the only useful skills Mycroft had ever taught him.

Sherlock was standing in the great ballroom, pondering how beautiful it could be with a bit of a clean, when he saw a winding staircase leading to another side of the castle they hadn’t yet explored.

“What is over there?” Sherlock asked, and Lestrade and Molly glanced at each other with nervous expressions on their inanimate faces. _Interesting,_ Sherlock thought. _They're hiding something._  

“Let’s go have a look,” Sherlock said after a moment’s pause, but Molly and Lestrade shouted “ _No_ ” in unison, standing in front of the staircase as if to block it from Sherlock’s six-foot frame. Sherlock arched a graceful eyebrow at them, glancing back up the winding steps with even more interest than before. 

Mycroft always said he was too curious for his own good, and he was right. 

“Mate, you really don’t want to go up there,” Lestrade pleaded, and when Sherlock searched his silver face, he saw anxiousness written all over his silver features.

_I have to know what’s there._

Meanwhile, Molly and Lestrade were listing other places in the castle they could go explore, and Sherlock overheard the word library.

“Wait, there’s a library here?” Sherlock asked, intrigued.

“Yes!” Molly exclaimed, her tiny clock face lighting up and the pendulum in her torso rocking faster back and forth with excitement as she stumbled over her words, “I-yes-l-let’s go now then, shall we?" 

“Alright” Sherlock agreed affably and, delighted, Molly and Lestrade began to wander down the corridor to the left of the staircase chatting amongst themselves about their favorite novels and memories in the library while Sherlock, remaining behind, shook his head at their gullibility.

_I do have to find that library later though._

Sherlock rushed up the stairs, careful to be quiet as he tiptoed down the corridor that became darker the father he explored. He suddenly wished he had brought a candle for light, but he would not turn back now. He opened the large oaken door at the end of the hall and, creeping forward, he found slashed portraits on the wall, one of a family of royals, and one of a young man.

“Huh?” Sherlock tilted his head in curiosity, walking up to the painting of the young man and using his dexterous fingers to run over the painting's torn strips, placing them together to get a look at the young man’s image.

He was a prince, which was certain by his dress and stature in the portrait. Sherlock searched for a name anywhere on the portrait, but it was not shown. The young man was obviously military, by the way he held himself and his haircut.

Sherlock was hypnotized by the man’s bright blonde hair and carefree smile, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His eyes, a soft blue color that sat above his rounded cheeks, reminded Sherlock of his family’s trip to the ocean before his mother died. He felt… Safe.

This man, whomever he was, he was special somehow.

A glowing caught his eye from the corner of the room, and Sherlock follow it to an enclosure with held a wilting red rose. It was glowing, floating as if supernatural, and Sherlock had a desperate want to touch the magical object, so hidden. Sherlock was entranced, and saddened, by the magical dying rose, the sight being almost too sad to bear for some reason. It was as if beauty and magic was dying. Sherlock reached over to take the glass casing off of the rose, reaching forward to touch the object. 

Lost as he was in his deductions and admiration of the rose, Sherlock didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.

 _“What do you think you’re doing?”_ The beast roared, startling Sherlock into stumbling away from the rose, tripping over his feet and landing on his back. Sherlock stared at the beast, who was now standing over him, in horror.

“I-I’m sorry” Sherlock stumbled over his apology, shaking in fear. Now he'd done it, but he didn't mean to do any damage. 

“Do you realize what you could’ve done?” The beast roared again, shaking the very floor they stood upon, and Sherlock raised himself on shaky legs to escape from the volatile creature.

“I-I didn’t mean any harm, I only-“

Sherlock was interrupted by the beast swiping at him with it’s great paws, and Sherlock jumped back barely in time to save himself from being mauled, but a blossom of red still bloomed across one pale collarbone from a claw that made its mark, deeply ripping into the soft flesh there. 

Sherlock stared at the beast in horror and pain, he could not believe that the beast had tried to kill him. Seeing the beast lost in surprise, he darted past him, yelling, “I don’t care what I promised. I won’t stay here another minute!”

Sherlock raced down the stairs of the West Wing, past the ballroom and the kitchen, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s calls for Sherlock to come back. He grabbed his cloak from his room and ran, down the front stairs and out the door. He paused briefly to look at the magic gazebo, with the beautiful roses blooming despite the cold winter night, and he mourned ever asking for a rose. If he had never sought to have one, his father never would have been captured, and he never would have been imprisoned.

Sherlock felt tears streaming down his face and he wiped them away, feeling them freeze on his cheeks in the winter chill but ignoring it. Anywhere was better than going back to that castle with that- that beast.

He went to the stable and, seeing Philip tied there, he mounted the steed and ran down the stone pathway, through the iron gate and into the night. 

Sherlock ignored the howl of a lonely creature coming from the castle, refusing to feel pity for the beast who had imprisoned and attacked him.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Meanwhile, back in Sussex, Siger Holmes had recently recovered from his fever caused from the cold conditions in the enchanted castle, and with his cleared mind, he was able to recall the events that led to his addled state.

Mycroft was disbelieving of his story, saying that the brain fever had caused illusions, but he too was searching for what had happened to Sherlock, as he had been missing for almost three days.

Together they went to the tavern in town, and Mycroft curled his lip in disgust at the drunken debauchery surrounding them, women throwing themselves at drunken men, the smell of yeast heady in the air at rain pelted the outside, causing the tavern to be overflowing with people from all walks of life searching to escape the storm.

In the corner, surrounded by his minions, sat Moriarty, holding court to determine whom he enjoyed the most and, more importantly, what they were plotting next.

Moriarty and his gang of violent minions were known for their ability to cause petty crimes and get away with them, and even though everyone knew it was their fault, there was never any evidence to convict them.

Moriarty was good, the best, but Mycroft was equally as clever.

“Father, go get a drink and give me a moment,” Mycroft ordered and Siger nodded, turning away as Mycroft began his stroll over to Moriarty, steeling himself.

“Moriarty, have you seen my little brother around in the past three days?” Mycroft inquired, interrupting their laughter from a crude joke, and watched as Moriarty’s cold, dead eyes turned to meet his own. Mycroft did not flinch or look away, but he felt a sense of foreboding from the empty stare.

“Mycroft,” Moriarty crooned, “you should be more careful with your belongings, someone might _take advantage_ of your laxness,” he drolled lazily, sipping his scotch with a waggle of his eyebrows. Mycroft shuttered at Moriarty’s crude intentions towards his little brother but said nothing, waiting for a real answer.

“No, Mycroft, I haven’t seen the littlest angel. Why? Has he done missing?” Moriarty gasped in faux-concern, causing his minions to chuckle lowly as they watched the interaction.

Mycroft opened his mouth with a well-formulated reply, but his father’s voice interrupted him, “he was taken by a beast!”

There was a beat of silence, before the gang roared in laughter, one man saying, “crazy old Siger, always knew he was a loon. Lost his wife and money, and now he’s lost his mind!” There were hollers and agreements all around, and Mycroft was trying to silence his father, but he would not listen.

“You don’t understand. We need help, Sherlock is lost in the woods with a maniac beast!” He gestured around wildly, trying to get their attention and prove to them the seriousness of the matter.

“Is it a big beast?” Asked one of the minions.

“Huge,” Siger nodded, ignoring Mycroft’s signals to stop talking.

“Does he have fangs and claws too?” Prodded another.

“Yes, ginormous, the largest you’ve ever seen on any creature.”

Moriarty held up his hand for silence, and the entire pub watched on: “Very well Siger, we believe you. We will even help you _out_.” His eyes gleamed with promise.

Mycroft realized where this was headed, and reached for his father, but two members of Moriarty’s network had already grabbed him, and were dragging him out of the mud, throwing him on the cold, wet ground.

“And stay out, you loon!” One of them called, and the door was shut on Mycroft and Siger’s faces.

Siger cried out in despair, “won’t anyone help me?”

Mycroft shook his head, thinking about the next plan of action and currently coming up short. 

* * *

Inside the tavern, Siger had given Moriarty a brilliant plan, and Moriarty was already plotting his next scheme.

“Alrighty boys, for our next plan, we are going to make an honest man out of me! Call the warden of the local insane asylum, I have a new patient he is going to want to meet,” he said with a slow curling grin, containing the promise of pain, and he outlined his plan to strike a deal with the warden, either Sherlock marries Moriarty or his father will be forced into the insane asylum due to his lunatic fantasy's of a beast, which everyone heard just now. With that evidence, Moriarty can claim that Sherlock's father is a danger to their society and should be locked away somewhere "safe."  

His network of thugs, looters, and murders shouted their approval, going off to find the warden and start the plan in motion.

 _Yes,_ Moriarty thought, _finally Sherlock will be mine._


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock slowed his pace, walking with Philip through the wintery night to travel home. The journey would take close to a day walking, but Sherlock was content to take his time and try to regulate his breathing, his mind in chaos.

 _You’re alright, now._ Sherlock thought to himself as he took deep breathe, and peered around him, taking in the shadows in the darkness and, for the first time, feeling a bit of unease.

No one in their village ever wandered off the path due to the dangers that were rumored to lurk in the forest, and while Sherlock had often dismissed these claims as idiotic, he was suddenly taken by uneasiness about his person.

Something was wrong.

Whipping his head around, Sherlock peered to the forest path in his wake, seeing nothing in the darkness but wishing that he had a light for his own comfort.

A growl emitted from nearby, and Sherlock stopped walking, frozen in place as he prayed the danger would pass by soon enough. Philip was spooked, and began thrusting onto his hind legs in abject panic.

Sherlock stroked his mane to encourage the beast to calm down, but luck was not with him, as the growls grew closer, indicating multiple animals hiding in the darkness. Wolves, most likely, Sherlock thought, remembering the geographical location and different species of predators in that area.

Philip, spooked, thrust Sherlock off his back. Sherlock yelled out, and Philip tried to run away, but his reign caught on a low hanging tree in the scuttle, and he was unable to run any farther.

Sherlock, grasping a makeshift weapon of a fallen tree branch on the forest floor, was moving to protect the horse, suddenly realized the extent of the dire situation. Well, he was their prey.

Pairs of glowing brown eyes were staring at him from beyond the bushes and underbrush, and Sherlock gulped, sucking in a deep breath as the wolves drew closer to him.

 _I don’t want to die_ , Sherlock thought desperately, swinging his arms wildly in front of the wolves, crying out as he attempted fend of the vicious animals, and letting out a startled shout that echoed all around him as one of the wolves tore at his pant legs, nicking the flesh of his ankle.

A roar ripped through the surroundings, so much fiercer than the chorus of growls from the wolves, and the creatures turned to discover the source of the terror inducing sound.

It was the beast; Sherlock recognized his slightly hunched figure in the darkness.

The wolves ran to attack the threat, and the beast fended them off as best as he could. The wolves tore viciously at his clothing, his cloak, biting at the scruff of his neck and legs while one latched onto his arm, digging into the flesh and causing the beast to fall over from the pain.

Sherlock was fending off the wolf who decided to try and attack Philip, hitting the animal in the head and sides with the tree branch until the animal gave up with a growl and also went to attack the beast.

Sherlock, in a thoughtless move, raced over the began beating the wolves from the beast’s back and sides, but the wolves simply tore further at Sherlock’s clothing in annoyance and went back to attacking the beast.

The beast, in a final effort, managed to grab one of the wolves by his neck with both paws, and snap it with a sickening crunch. The animal fell, dead, on the forest floor and the other wolves sprinted away, recognizing the alpha species in their fear.

Once the pathway was clear, the beast glanced up blearily to look at Sherlock, staring at the man in confusion for a moment before his eyes rolled back and he passed out, unconscious on the forest floor. 

Sherlock untied Philip’s tangled reigns and turned to continue walking down the forest path towards home, but he paused for a brief moment.

 _“Have the courage to be kind, my darling,”_ Sherlock heard whispered in the winter wind, the voice soft as it had been in life, and he sighed.

He turned back and went to the bloodied and broken beast, taking off his cloak and covering the wounded creature to give him some semblance of warmth. Then Sherlock, with the help of Philip, was able the heave the large beast on Philip’s back for the slow walk back to the castle.

Sherlock led Philip down the forest path, slowly in order to not exacerbate the beast's injuries, and he glanced at the beast’s face, reaching out to touch the fur on the side of his neck briefly to wipe away some blood and feel for his pulse.

 _It’s soft,_ Sherlock thought as he stroked around the path of matted hair, but pulled away his hand as if burned once he realized what he was doing.

Then Sherlock looked at his hand, and realized the blood from the beast was red, just like his.

We may not be so different after all, Sherlock pondered as he reached the castle gates, walking up to the large door and taking a deep breathe.

 _Here we go,_ Sherlock thought as he thrust open the door, entering the enchanted castle for the second time.

Sherlock lead Philip just inside and pulled the Beast, who was regaining consciousness, to the floor of the foyer, ignoring his groan of pain and calling for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to help.

It was not lost on Sherlock that he was entering his prison cell willingly, but as he looked at the beast, Sherlock felt a sense of calm settle over his heart.

He had made the right choice.

* * *

_How dare he_ , John raged to himself, pacing back and forth in his chambers after the boy ran away in terror, _how dare he come into my chambers and almost destroy the rose!_

John didn't care to hear Sherlock's excuses, his hope for winning over Sherlock and learning to love again were pointless. How could he ever learn to love such an insolent, nosy-

 _Beautiful_ _, curious, intelligent-_  his mind supplied unhelpfully. John shook his head, walking out onto his balcony and watching as Sherlock mounted his horse and rode off into the night, his alabaster skin matching the freshly fallen snow. Even from a distance, Sherlock was a graceful vision. Without John's conscious thought, a howl tore itself from his throat, admitting to the sky what a lonely and saddened creature he was. 

John knew that it was his fault that Sherlock had run, he had clawed at him, roared his displeasure and given the young man the fright of his life, from the alarm gracing his delicate features and the speed at which he ran from John's rooms once he saw an opening. 

 _“I don’t care what I promised. I won’t stay here another minute!”_ John heard Sherlock's words echo in his head, and he winced, looking out into the forest and wondering where Sherlock would go. 

 _Home, most likely._ Yes, people would go home to their loved ones, John imagined. 

He turned to storm back into his chambers, to shut out the light of the oppressing moon shining down, when he heard a distant shout coming from just beyond the castle gates. 

John blinked in confusion, wondering who else would come to such a deserted-

No. _Sherlock._ Sherlock was in danger. 

Just as John heard the cry out again, he was off, running through the castle and out the doors, galloping on all fours and using his gained muscle mass of the beast to reach Sherlock's side in moments, as he had not strayed too far from the castle walls. 

Sherlock was surrounded by wolves, trying to fend them away from him and his horse, who appeared to be caught on a branch. With a roar, he turned the lowly predators to face him, and as a group they attacked. He fought bak viciously, clawing every which way to hurt the animals, but there were too many. They tore at his clothes, biting into the scruff of his neck and and meat of his legs.

He was already swirling in a sea of adrenaline and pain, reminding him of army days gone by, an with a battle cry, and he fought back harder until he felt a burning pain in his arm; one of the wolves clamped down on his forearm and was digging into the fresh with his sharp teeth, refusing the let go. With a cry, John fell, overwhelmed by the pain. In a final act of desperation he grabbed one of the wolves and using his massive paws, snapped its neck, feeling the bones separate under his palms. 

He dropped it to the ground, dead, and the wolves ran off. 

The last moment John remembered was looking into Sherlock's eyes, his figure blurring slightly, before everything was dark. 

* * *

 John was roused into waking from the stinging feeling coming from his left forearm. He tried to pull his arm away from the discomfort but someone was holding on, and would not let his arm free.

 _What, what? Someone was touching him?_ John thought with a jolt of awareness, his eyes flying open to look into the pair of stormy blue and green eyes staring right back at him, unflinchingly.

He glanced down, wanting to break that gaze that seemed to stare into his very soul- if he even had one of those left- and saw that Sherlock was tending to his wound from the wolf.

He was sat in an armchair in the foyer, in front of a roaring fire with Sherlock’s cloak still covering his torn clothes and wounded body.

He hissed as the hot water burned the wound, and he expressed his displeasure, “stop that! It hurts.” John grabbed his arm and lifted it to his arm to wash it with his tongue, his animalistic instincts coming to the forefront.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering something about a drama queen, and John was flabbergasted. Was this not the same Sherlock who had run from him in terror only a while ago?

“Yes, I know that, but we need to clean it so it doesn’t become infected. Stop licking it, you have no idea the sort of bacterial infections that run rampant at this side of the world,” Sherlock enunciated clearly, grabbing his arm back and continuing to clean, more gently, at the wound while John stared at him with a bemused expression on his beastly face.

“Well, none of this would have happened if you hadn't run away,” John announced wanting to claim the upper hand, but Sherlock only glowered at him.

“I wouldn’t have run away if you didn’t try to maul me and scare me half to death!” Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation, still cleaning the wound and glaring at it, as if it was the cause of their problems. 

“Well maybe you should have thought of that when you went into my private chambers!” John growled, his voiced mounting in anger.

“And maybe you should learn to control your temper,” Sherlock shot back in the same instant, glaring now up at the beast with all his might, his stormy eyes flashing and glowing green in the firelight. John backed down after a moment, realizing that, perhaps just now, Sherlock was right. He sat back in the chair, and stared intently into the fire, pondering over the strange events of the evening.

They sat in silence before the fire for a few minutes, Sherlock tending his wounds with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade looking on.

“By the way” Sherlock spoke softly after a while; drawing John’s eyes from the fire back to the young man, “thank you, for saving my life.”

John felt a sharp pang somewhere deep within his chest and wondered, for a moment, if it was possible….

 _No,_ he cut off that train of thought viciously. It wasn’t possible. Not after the incident in his chambers, he had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was nothing but a beast.

And yet, Sherlock stayed. He came back.

John looked down at the young man, and murmured, “You’re welcome.”

Sherlock felt a tugging at the corners of his mouth as he bandaged the wound. _Progress_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen Pride and Prejudice (2005) then you'll remember Elizabeth Bennet's sexual awakening scene in the museum. Sexual content ahead. Comment with any criticism/critiques.

Two days later, the castle and their enchanted residents had settled down from the panic inducing events from the night Sherlock ran away.

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were glad that Sherlock and John weren't hurt overly much, and when Molly brought Rosie into Sherlock's room to see him while he rested his hurt ankle, she clattered and clanked up to Sherlock and demanded he not leave her again. Sherlock giggled at the imperious little girl's command, but nodded his head with a mock-serious expression, until Rosie was content with his promise to stay. 

The beast and Sherlock were on tentatively better terms; Sherlock agreed not to run again and the beast stared at him for a moment with an unreadable expression before nodding in agreement and turning away, disappearing around a corner in a flurry of his scarlet cloak. 

Sherlock had not seen the beast since that night. He had been grateful for the beast’s intervention, his heroism. As much as Sherlock liked to claim he was clever, he recognized that he would not have survived that encounter despite his intellectual abilities.

Sherlock had oddly missed the beast since the night be proved he could be kind. There was a heart buried deep, somewhere, and Sherlock was determined to find it. True, he missed his papa with a present ache in his chest, but Sherlock also saw a loneliness lurking in the beast's eyes that he had often seen staring at him in the mirror. Sherlock knew he was lonely, and he knew he should have been more focused on created friendships with his peers, but Sherlock had always been a little too different.

A little too beautiful for a boy, a little too quirky with science experiments that blew up and singed the tips of his curls, a little too observant and not good enough with social queues to know when to keep his deductions to himself. 

But beyond their similar states of isolation, Sherlock did not know why he was so interested in the beast; there was a mystery involving the creature that Sherlock was itching to solve.

Now, Sherlock was exploring his new residence, and he stumbled across a beautiful room full of artwork and statues with the likeness he had never seen outside of London museums of fine art. The room's celling was at least twenty feet tall, with a golden chandelier hanging ornately. A wall of windows faced the gardens, and while the gardens were mainly overgrown and untended, it was still full of greenery and made the room look more lifelike than the rest of the castle. The room was bathed in the brief flashes of sunlight that were able to break past the sun and reflect across the snow covering the ground. 

The nude statues of men and women drew his eyes as he gazed at them, taking in their beautiful, frozen features etched into the hard marble, wondering what it would be like to touch the statues in their human forms. Sherlock jolted at his own thoughts, finding it odd that he would be interested in the human body outside of anatomical studies. 

Sherlock had never much been interested in others in a physical manner, always preferring his books to dreary companionship and therefore never building any romantic connections. Despite Moriarty’s many attempts back in Sussex, Sherlock was entirely uninterested in him and his poorly laid innuendos. Intellectual abilities were attractive to Sherlock, it was true, but sentiment was a necessity in a romantic relationship, and Sherlock knew that he needed affection. Moriarty was cold, his smiles never reaching his eyes and his actions never kind. 

But now, as Sherlock gazed at these frozen statues and, daringly, let his gaze drop below their waists, he observed in fascination the beauty of the naked human body; the plump and the thin, the small phallus and the large. Women with their breasts and genitalia so gentle, always appearing so soft even etched in stone as they are, and men, with their strong chests and firm- _ahem_ -buttocks, standing proudly.

Sherlock glanced at an enormous statue of Poseidon and looked away, giggling slightly at the voluptuous rear present on the statue before the fish-tail began to form on his upper thighs, remembering all the stories he had read about Poseidon as a boy, how he was the king of the sea and fearsome to all who crossed his path, his strength written about in great greek poetry and prose.

When Sherlock glanced back however, his yet curiosity unfulfilled, and observed the broad phallus, the rounded buttocks, and the hardened abdomen muscles, Sherlock found himself drawn to the mystical creature, and his rumored strength. He stepped cautiously forward, and drew his hand gently down the statue, baffled at the feeling of the cold stone underneath his fingers, his mouth opening in shock at the sensations that raced through his body. What would it feel like, to have such a creature hold him close, caress his naked flesh with his own, take him deep beneath the sea-

As Sherlock continued to study the men and women in the ornate room, his gaze settling back on the magnificent greek god, he began to feel a tingling feeling running down his back and a swirling in his abdomen, a pulsation. He waited for it to disperse, but it only grew, a delicious ache. For a moment, he feared he was going to be ill, his stomach churning, but he realized mere moments later when he glanced down at the slight indentation at the front of his trousers that he was not ill, although the sensations were admittedly new. 

No, he was _aroused_. Sherlock stood in amazement for a moment, before going to sit on one of the many benches present in the room to process these sensations, adjusting himself lightly and twitching at the remarkable pleasure that raced up his spine at the simple movement. He wanted to touch himself again, and he reached down to do just that, before realizing he was in a public place.

 _A bit not good, Sherlock,_ he heard in his mind, wondering where his sub-conscious' voice was coming from. 

Sherlock had never felt desire, even when faced with romantic interest thrown his way, but here, in this castle where everything was new and exciting, Sherlock realized that he had never felt so alive.

This is what adrenaline feels like, Sherlock realized with a grin, hopping up and glancing down, grateful that his trousers were no longer experiencing a lingering tightness, and he raced out of the gallery feeling utterly alive and like he could fly.

* * *

 John, on the other hand, was stroking himself deftly, having seen Sherlock’s entire encounter.

Good _lord,_ Sherlock would be the death of him.

Two days ago, the boy had shattered all his defenses in a moment of kindness, bringing his jailer back to his castle and promising to stay with the beast, honoring his side of the bargain. John knew he didn’t deserve Sherlock's kindness after frightening him so, but he found he was grateful that the boy agreed to stay with him anyways.

And now, now he was becoming aroused by _looking at naked men’s statues_ while John was checking up on him.

John truly did have innocent intentions when picking up the mirror, not wanting to pry but wanting to make sure his guest was still comfortable and safe. John had not seen him in two days, and when he spoke into the mirror and Sherlock’s image swam in front of his eyes, he saw the young man staring at Poseidon with a little grin, that smile fading however as a look of confusion crossed his features, a shiver raking through his lean frame and- _Ohhh_ \- a bulge forming at the front of his trousers. He reached out to touch the statue, trailing his hand gently down the statue's torso and ending just before reaching the cock, letting his graceful hand trail away and fall back at his side. 

_Sherlock was aroused by men._

He observed Sherlock for a moment longer, watching him clutch his abdomen as if he thought he would be sick and then, his realization dawning as he looked down to see his arousal, a light flush gracing his delicate cheekbones and his mouth opening to form an "oh."

John shut off the connection quickly after that, feeling as if he had already pried enough, and he didn’t want to prove himself anymore beastly by taking advantage of the oblivious Sherlock, but he couldn't help trailing his paw down his expansive abdomen and grabbing his large cock, already hardened from the sight, and stroking it to the imagine of the confused innocence Sherlock displayed in the art gallery. So sweet. 

 _The boy is a virgin then_ , a devious and instinctual part of John’s mind whispered to him, _he is pure and ready to be taken_.

John came in the next instant, picturing Sherlock’s beautiful face and wild curls in the throws of passion. John's cock continued to pulse as he came down from his orgasmic high, smiling slightly at the thought of Sherlock's body and beautiful mind in his bed, and trying to catch his breath. 

A niggling feeling of guilt was present, but John shoved it away, rolling over to take a nap and trying to forget Sherlock’s sweet expression.

John shut his eyes, and willed his relaxed body to sleep.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was wandering the halls of the castle one morning, staring up at the artwork on the ceilings, when he ran into something strong, and covered in soft hair.

Sherlock jumped back, looking up into the icy blue eyes that had captivated his thoughts as of late.

“I-I’m sorry-“ Sherlock began.

“No, the fault is mine-“ the beast interrupted.

The two stopped and just looked at one another, lost in the moment, before the beast cleared his throat.

“I wondered if you might join me for breakfast,” John asked evenly, watching Sherlock for signs of reluctance, but the young man’s face lit up.

“Yes! But are you sure it is a request this time, not a demand?” Sherlock asked innocently. The beast opened his mouth to respond, but saw Sherlock’s eyes sparkling with mischief, and he sighed.

“Yes, it is a request this time. I apologize for my… brusqueness earlier.”

Sherlock chuckled, stepping forward and beginning to walk towards the dining room side by side with the best, “That’s one way to put it.”

The beast felt his lips tilt up in a grin, but grunted in an annoyed manner in response to Sherlock.

The two entered the dining room, and Mrs. Hudson entered from the kitchen entrance riding on a cart with a grin stretching her face.

“Sherlock, master, it’s wonderful to see you two eating together at last” she remarked, pouring tea into to cups and wheeling them two both Sherlock and the beast, adding sugar to the young man’s and milk to the beast’s.

“We’re having porridge this morning,” she announced, and Sherlock made a face, which cause the beast to chuckle. Sherlock smiled over at him, and grabbed spoon, poking at the porridge with a disgusted expression.

“That’s enough out of you, young man. You didn’t eat at all yesterday” Mrs. Hudson reprimanded Sherlock, but he just sighed in response.

“Digestion slows down my transport and my deductions!” Sherlock whined, negating his point by shoveling a bit of porridge into his mouth in the same instant.

“Shut it, Sherlock” Lestrade commanded, hopping in past the open doorway with his candles flickering in the morning light. Sherlock turned to grin at him, and wasted no time questioning Lestrade about the history of the war paintings in the South Wing.

"Where were you yesterday Lestrade? You told me you would meet me there?" Sherlock asked, and Lestrade looked down, biting his silver tinged lip, and Sherlock gasped in realization, "you were with Molly weren't you! I hope you two didn't scar Rosie with your goings on; a candelabra and a clock, honestly," he muttered with a childish expression of distaste, and Lestrade only chuckled back in response, sticking a small tongue out at Sherlock in response, which was the point Mrs. Hudson told them to stop teasing each other at the table. 

John watched their interaction with amazement. This man, who had been imprisoned just over two weeks ago, was joking around with his house-manager turned teapot, playing daily with Rosie, and finding new adventure’s every day while locked in his gilded cage.

John watched it all from a distance, trying not to engage Sherlock, afraid that his temper would flair, but the longer John watched Sherlock, affection for the beautiful man grew in his chest.

He deserved something. Something special. John had been planning on doing this once he and Sherlock were on slightly friendlier terms, but he had already prepared the gift, and he was anxious to see Sherlock's expression. 

“Sherlock” the beast announced after licking his bowl clean, interrupting Sherlock’s conversation with Lestrade about different battle armors. Sherlock turned to him, interest flaring in his eyes. John rarely addressed him by name, after all.

“I would like to take you somewhere” the beast announced cryptically, but Sherlock just nodded, pushing his chair back and excusing himself from the table, striding away from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, who were looking at the two of them with knowing smiles on their tiny faces.

John scowled at them and followed Sherlock out into the fall, and stepped up behind the boy, as close as he had ever dared.

“Close your eyes” he whispered, watching Sherlock shiver from his proximity and hoping it was no longer from fear.

“Yes” Sherlock announced, doing as the beast said, and John was struck by the trust and kindness Sherlock bestowed on everyone he met. John never would have trusted or forgiven someone who had treated him the way he had treated Sherlock. A pang of guilt ran through his chest, but he pushed it away in favor of giving Sherlock his surprise. 

John took his hands, marveling at how right they felt, even resting on his paws, and Sherlock marveled at the soft fur tickling his fingertips.

The beast led him down the passageway and then to the right. Sherlock knew they were headed to the North Wing, but he allowed the beast his game of confusion, and smiled at the feeling of his hands being held so gently by a fierce some beast.

Finally they came to a stop, and Sherlock could not calculate their placement in the castle in his mind palace. He had never been there before.

_Something new._

The beast opened the doors and, glancing back to make sure Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, grabbed his hands once more and led him in.

“Keep them closed one moment longer” the beast announced, pulling back curtains to let light in the space, and Sherlock took a deep breath.

Books. It smelled like books, old and new, all around them. 

“Open your eyes” the beast said in a low rumble, a smile in his voice, and Sherlock did to discover the largest and most magnificent library he had ever seen. Even being raised in nobility, they had never had access to the sheer amount of tomes in the space.

Over two stories high, with two floors and armchairs, a fireplace and three ladders, the colors of the faded covers complementing the shining wood of the freshly cleaned room, the library was the most intricate and wonderful room Sherlock had ever seen. His curious virescent eyes poured over the space, half-believing he was in a dream.

The room was not dreary like the rest of the castle, but rather was sparkling with new life. _He had this room cleaned, for me._ Sherlock realized, a warm feeling blooming in his chest as he ran forward to a shelf, pulling out a Chemistry book from that particular section and marveling at all the books he could now read.

“You-is this?” Sherlock asked haltingly, in shock.

“This is for you, come here whenever you want, Sherlock,” the beast announced softly, adoring the wondering expressions crossing the young man’s face. He deserved so much more, but for now, the library seemed like a strong start.

Sherlock turned around and, after browsing for a moment, pulled out a copy of _Gulliver’s Travels_.

“Do you-that is,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “do you want to read this with me?” When the beast looked on in confusion, Sherlock amended, “I mean, I’ll read it aloud. For you. With you, I mean.”

The beast, struck silent from such a request, nodded, and Sherlock turned sat on the worn leather armchair near the warm hearth, pointing to the soft armchair directly across from him.

“Here, sit by me.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

_Sherlock was running through the forest, being chased down by shadows that were reminiscent of wolves. He tried to yell out, but his voice was silent, as if he had lost his tongue. Frustrated, he kept running until his feet began to sink._

_Looking down in panic, Sherlock perceived he feet sinking into the forest ground and he began to flail his arms, searching for a tether of some sort and then-_

_A warm hand wrapped around his arm, and pulled him to freedom. Catching his breath, he tried to express his thanks, but when he opened his mouth, his voice would still not come. He coughed, and tried again, but to no avail._

_Looking up, he saw cerulean eyes staring back at him curiously._

_“Are you alright?” The man asked, reaching forward to brush the dirt from Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock stared back in bemusement, remembering that face._

_How?_

_The man was short in stature, his body compact and strong from his time in- the army? Yes, Sherlock deduced from his military stature: his dark blonde hair shown brightly despite the darkness surrounding them, and his face…._

_His face was kind, pleasantly wrinkled with a button nose that lightened his otherwise masculine features, and was set in a concerned expression._

_“Sherlock, it’s time to wake up,” the kind man said, and Sherlock stared at him bemused._

_“How do you know my name?” Sherlock tried to ask voicelessly, but the man shook his head, a fond expression on his gleaming face._

_“Wake up, darling,” the man whispered with a smile, and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock’s vision swirled-_

His eyes flew open. Sherlock sat up on his bed in his darkened bedchambers, looking around the room to see it exactly as it had been when he had gone to sleep- clothes laid on the chair, a now cold cup of tea sitting on his nightstand, the light from the moon illuminating the floor with dancing shadows. But Sherlock could only focus on his dream.

Who _was_ he? The man in the dream?

Sherlock looked down, and felt blood rushing and heating his face at the slight tenting of the covers from his arousal. He pondered for a moment longer on the meaning of the dream. Maybe it was a coincidence?

 _"Oh Sherlock,"_ he heard his brother's voice in his head, _"what do we say about coincidences? The universe is rarely so lazy, little brother."_ Sherlock shook Mycroft's pompous voice from his head, just as annoying as he remembered, but realized he was right. 

“Oh, that’s brilliant!” Sherlock announced to the empty room, happy to hear his voice was in working order. It was the prince. The man in the painting in the beast’s bedchambers from the night he ran away, over a month ago.

The prince. Why was he important? Why would his picture be destroyed?

People don’t just destroy things ideally; destruction was fueled by deep emotion, usually hatred. Why would the beast hate the prince…?

Perhaps the prince was a hated family member? Doubtful, the beast was of a prickly sort, to be sure, but he didn’t seem to wish that sort of spite on others. He is always rather kind, always smiling when Rosie is mentioned or Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson argue about the cleaning.

No, Sherlock decided, that was an option.

 _“Narrow it down, Sherlock”_ he heard his brother's voice in his head once again. 

No, the beast was not hateful of others; the only person he was hateful towards was…himself.

 _That’s it!_ Sherlock jumped from the bed in a flurry, throwing on his dressing gown and throwing open the door, beginning his trek to the West Wing.

The prince… is the _beast_. 

Sherlock shook his head and laughed in delight, of course! How could he have missed the clues?

“Sherlock, where are you going at this time of night?” Mrs. Hudson called from behind him, and Sherlock turned to look at the flower-covered teapot. Mrs. Hudson would know the answers Sherlock sought. Going straight to the beast may incite his well-known temper, and Sherlock was not keen to destroy the tentative bond they had begun to form.

Since the day Sherlock and the beast spent in the library, their affection for one another had grown significantly. They spend almost every day together, walking in the gardens or reading in the library in front of the roaring fire. Sherlock’s fingers itched to bury themselves in the soft golden fur, and stroke the long whiskers on his lion’s face.

Sherlock flushed lightly at the memory of his desire to touch the beast, “yes Mrs. Hudson, I have a few pressing questions that cannot wait until morning.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled and gestured him into the kitchen with a tilt of her top, pouring him a cup of tea and letting him slouch over the table. Sherlock took a sip, reveling in the warmth spreading through his body with just the right amount of sweetness. Bless Mrs. Hudson.

“All right love, drink your spot of tea and tell me what you’re doing running around the palace at this time of night?” Mrs. Hudson appeased, hopping to stand near Sherlock, the heat from her kettle warming him in the drafty open space.

Sighing, he lifted his head, “I need answers Mrs. Hudson. I had a dream, I was running and then sinking and then a man, with golden hair and blue eyes and a strong chest and arms, he pulled me to safety” he relayed in a perplexed tone, talking at a rapid pace and standing to pace around agitatedly. 

Mrs. Hudson waiting in silence, and so he went on: “The man told me to wake up, he seemed to know me” Sherlock whispered, blood flushing his cheeks in remembrance of the gently spoken _“darling”_ that had passed the man’s lips right before he kissed Sherlock's hand and the resulting arousal when he was awakened. 

Mrs. Hudson watched Sherlock’s bashful expression, and smiled knowingly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and continued, “and when I was awoken, I realized I knew his face. From the night in the beast’s chamber, there was a portrait of a man, a prince, but it was torn. Ripped to shred by some unhappy force. Claw marks, from the beast.” Sherlock continued, watching Mrs. Hudson’s china visage for any signs of recognition, and her eyes widened as he told his story.

“So, you want to know why the beast would destroy the portrait?” She asked hesitantly.

“No, I want you to confirm my theory that the beast was once the prince of this castle.”

A beat of silence, and then two, passed before a word was spoken. The fire, which was once roaring, had settled down and the chill of winter was permeating the night air.

“Yes.” She said simply, and Sherlock let out his breath in a puff of air.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m afraid it’s his story to tell, dear. Now, that’s quite enough chatter.” She proclaimed, motioning for the enchanted objects to begin clearing the table for Sherlock’s departure, “off to bed with you.”

Sherlock huffed slightly in annoyance at his questions remaining unanswered, but stood up at her request.

Before passing through the doorway, he turned to ask one more question.

“What was his name?” Sherlock asked, his voice interrupting the sound of china being cleaned. Mrs. Hudson turned to him with a serious expression on her fragile face.

“His name is John,” she admitted, “but do not call him that lightly, the master detests being reminded of his past self.”

Sherlock nodded, turning to walk back the way he came. When he reached his bedchambers, he fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow, only one word echoing in his mind.

_John._

* * *

"What do you plan to offer me, then?" The asylum owner leered, looking at Moriarty with a lecherous grin while taking a swig of his brandy. Moriarty returned a sharp smile.

"What you care about- money. I have it, you want it. It's yours" Moriarty held out a pouch of gold and the greedy asylum owner tried to snatch it away, but Moriarty moved the pouch at the last second, pulling out a single coin. He then began to play with it, twisting it around his fingers and watching the asylum owner's eyes follow the gold piece with a look of hunger. 

"Not so fast. You have to threaten to lock up Siger Holmes on account of hallucinations of beasts, unless his son, Sherlock, agrees to marry me," Moriarty explained slowly, as if talking to a slow child. The owner rolled his eyes with a groan of annoyance. 

"But Siger isn't insane," he whined, let down that the money would not be his after all. Moriarty only shook his head in response. 

"Everyone saw him raving about a beast a few weeks ago in the tavern, and he hasn't been seen since. Call him out as a lunatic, and the townspeople will support you," Moriarty assured, still flipping a cold coin around his fingers, "I guarantee it. I know this plan sounds a bit crazy, but I am a _fool in love_ " Moriarty sang out with a short laugh, rocking back in his chair with a gleam in his cold eyes.

The asylum owner's face curled slowly into a smirk, "well, crazy is my expertise." 

 


	14. Chapter 14

John was busy reading in the library, a medical text that held his interest. He had at one point considered becoming a healer if he had not gone into the army, when he still had a penchant for helping others before he became too self-involved. John shook those thoughts away with a grimace, thinking about his past was not a past-time he wished to partake in. 

He was scanning the text for a specific section when Sherlock entered the library with a huge stack of books carried in his leanly muscled arms.

And by entered, John meant made himself known by making an unintentional scene. John looked up at hearing a crash to see books flying about and a curly head hitting the ground with a soft smack. Oh Sherlock, it was always something with the curly haired young man. 

The beast stood up and raced over to help Sherlock up, concerned, but Sherlock popped back upwards right away, a chagrined flush evident on his cheeks.

“I’m err, s-sorry about that,” he stammered, leaning down to begin collecting books, and the beast lent down to lend a hand. Sherlock glanced up at him to give him a smile, and the beast’s lips quirked at the corners from the ridiculous young man who, quite literally sometimes, stumbled into his life.

“It’s never quiet with you around, I grant you,” the beast replied; to which Sherlock graced him with a playful glare that caused his heart to quicken its pace.

Finally, when the many strewn books were collected and deposited safely on a table, Sherlock turned to him wearing a brilliant smile, wider than the beast had ever seen in his presence.

“Sherlock, are you feeling quite alright?” John asked, confused by the books erratic and clumsy behavior when he had only known Sherlock to be graceful and put together.

To his amazement, the boy’s alabaster cheeks turned rosy again and he turned away from the beast and began sorting the books on the table to put way. John was startled at the boys blush; what in the world was he embarrassed about? 

“Yes, of course. I’m well, thank you,” Sherlock murmured, more subdued, so John shrugged his massive shoulders and went back over to the armchair, picking back up the medical journal he had been reading and tried to restart where he left off about cell research.

Sherlock, as usual, proved to be a distraction however, with his curls falling in his eyes and an absent-minded hand pushing the curls away as he sorted the texts, his lean muscles flexing as he moved the heavy tomes back and forth across the library, and his joyful expression when he discovered a new novel to read about bees.

That reminded John: “Why are you so fascinated with bees?” He called across the expansive room to Sherlock, who was crouched low and sprang up at his voice, hitting his head on the latter beside him. The beast winced in sympathy, and stared, bemused, as the normally graceful boy displayed odd behavior in his presence once again.

Was he perhaps still afraid of John? The beast couldn’t blame him, after everything that had happened, but he was sure that he and Sherlock had grown closer in the past month or so they had been together.

As the beast looked out the window, he saw the beginning of buds blossoming on the tree. In just a few weeks, the spell would be permanent. He sighed, thinking about his fate and the fate of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Rosie- _God, Rosie_. Who would never age, never grow.

He was startled from his melancholy by Sherlock, “I’ve always loved bees. I’ve studied them since I was a child, and when we lived in London, I was able to visit a science museum and learn about different species and functions of different bees. My favorite bee is a honeybee, from the line of Genus Bombus, part of Apidae, one of the bee families. I love honey, I ate it everyday-“ Sherlock cut himself off suddenly, but they both heard the _at home_ that went unsaid.

A frown was now gracing Sherlock's usually carefree features, and John wished he could bring back the Sherlock from a moment ago that was passionately excited, talking about his bees.

“We can get you honey, if you wish,” the beast said to break the glum silence, and Sherlock met his eyes, a tentative grin washing over his face, even if his eyes shown some residual sadness.

 _That’s my fault,_ John thought miserably, thinking of a way to make it up to Sherlock.

“Why do you always pick the books with the most ratty covers?” The beast asked as a way to break the silence, and Sherlock looked down, observing the worse for wear book about bees that was now resting on the table.

“Well, when I was a child, my mother taught me a lesson. Sometimes, the best book’s have the dustiest covers. It may not be as beautiful as the other’s on the outside but it is still worth reading” Sherlock replied, a wistful smile on his face as he recalled his mother and a tender look in his eyes as he peered up at the beast, sky blue eyes meeting the sea storm, and the beast realized in that moment that he was lost.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” the beast said out of nowhere, and Sherlock looked at him with a bemused expression.

“We have dinner together every night,” he reminded the beast, and John frowned, thinking of a clearer way to state his intentions.

He rose to his feet, padding over to Sherlock and gently taking one of his soft, beautiful hands into his own paw with razor-sharp claws, being careful not to hurt Sherlock.

_Never again._

“I mean, have dinner with me. With music, and dancing,” John elaborated, and watched the realization dawn on Sherlock’s face.

John prepped himself for rejection, but Sherlock surprised him yet again, “I would love to. Dinner at seven?” He shuffled his feet, looking down, and the beast was amazed that this human, this beauty, was able too look past his fur and claws and see someone worth going to dinner with underneath.

Looking past the cover, indeed.

“Yes, Sherlock, I look forward to it.”

With that, and feeling a bit bold, John lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth for a tickling kiss, as he had been taught when he was a prince, and Sherlock watched with a facial expression of alarm, as if recalling a bad dream.

Before the beast could enquire further, concerned by his bemused expression at the simple kiss, Sherlock was off, racing to grab the book on bees and then out the door, calling back “later!”

The beast only chuckled to himself, and tried to continue reading his medical text, but his thoughts, however, were focused on the night ahead.

“Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade! I need your help,” John called, as he began to plan.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The famous Beauty and the Beast dancing scene; I hope I did it justice.

After his humiliating encounter with the beast in the library, Sherlock thought it would be best to take some time to regain his self control before tonight’s dinner by going to his bedroom. With falling about in the library, and accidentally referring to the one topic that was unspoken about by mutual decision- Sherlock’s home- the curly haired man was anxious to leave the beast’s presence before embarrassing himself further.

And the hand kiss reminded Sherlock so much of his dream; the beast acted exactly like the man, charming and completely flummoxing Sherlock.

The beast is the prince. Prince John. Sherlock is going to dinner with a prince turned beast. It was like a fairytale, the ones he read about as a child- and secretly keeps under his bed at home for when he needs imagine a world with a prince charming. And true, the beast was not _exactly_ prince charming, but he was somehow everything Sherlock could want from a prince. Manly, educated and intelligent- but not _more_ intelligent than him- sweet and, Sherlock can admit within the confines of his own mind, _dominating_ in a way that makes Sherlock heart beat faster and tingles rush down his spine when the beast roars or commands. Ever the prince and the army captain, used to getting his way. 

Sherlock threw himself on his freshly made bed with a decidedly unmanly squeal of excitement: Tonight he had a date with John. His first ever. 

When it was time to start getting ready, Mrs. Hudson forced Sherlock into a bath for his night with John, claiming that Sherlock should look his very best.

Sherlock agreed while grumbling, and he stripped off his clothes, getting into the large bath that was attached to his chambers and trying to ignore the many objects in the room who were preparing for his night with John. Sherlock was horribly nervous and spent most of the time in the bath scrubbing his skin practically raw and untangling his curls.

Then the hairbrush was working on his hair while the nail trimmers got to work on cutting and polishing his nails.

Next, Mrs. Hudson hopped over to the wardrobe, instructing Sherlock to follow. Sherlock grabbed a dressing down and followed the teapot into his bedroom, which had become far more comfortable in the past few months since his moving.

“Now love, I want you to listen carefully. Pick out the form fitting black riding pants, the black formal boots, and the deep blue ruffled shirt, with a lower cut neckline, leaving his collarbones exposed, the red line fading from the night almost two months ago in the beast's chambers. 

Sherlock pulled out the article of clothing, wincing as he pulled out the pants. They were created for horseback riding and, as such, they were forcibly tight and the observer could see every crevice of the person wearing them. Mrs. Hudson saw him grimacing at the pants; smirking she said, “John will like them, Sherlock.”

Blood rushed to Sherlock’s face and he turned his face back to the wardrobe, “anything else?”

Yes, the blue and white formal jacket please,” she announced, and Sherlock pulled this item out with a grin. He loved the way the coat looked on the hanger, and hoped it would make him appear dashing.

 _And why exactly do you want to look dashing, hmm?_ His inner mind teased, and he blushed brighter, thinking about John. The beast and the man from his dream, morphing into one person in his mind, inseparable from one another.

“Okay love, go put those on and then let me see you,” Mrs. Hudson instructed with a soft smile, as if she could sense Sherlock’s anxiousness and excitement. Sherlock nodded absentmindedly and went to put on the clothing, having some issues with the tight riding trousers but overall he had no problems. Stepping out to face Mrs. Hudson while putting on his belt, she cooed, “don’t you look handsome, young man? Come look at yourself.”

Sherlock walked over to the full-length mirror hanging on the wardrobe, and his mouth dropped in shock. He had never appeared so… Regal. He was standing tall, appearing even taller due to the boots and the slim cut of the jacket. The jacket’s tassels sparkled in the candlelight and the blue from the shirt brought out the blue in his eyes, making them seem even larger.

His black curls, freshly washed and brushed, hung around his forehead in ringlets, and his smooth cheeks appeared flushed from the creams he had put on after the bath.

He looked… Wonderful. At that thought, Sherlock glanced away from the mirror with a wince, remembering all the times he had been made fun of for his appearance. In an odd way, the beasts obvious self consciousness about his form made Sherlock more conformable, understanding the feeling of being judged for your looks. While their situations were very different, Sherlock still understood what it means to be isolated and alone because of it. 

In the midst of his self-doubt, Mrs. Hudson bouncing forward, her ceramic body clinking lightly against the floor, “What is it dear?”

Suddenly overwhelmed, Sherlock felt a stinging in the back of his eyes, “It’s just, I used to be made fun of for my appearance. My mama said it was because other’s were jealous, but I never realized until just now that maybe she was right.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a light chuckle at that, “Of course she was right love, mother’s are never wrong. And you are beautiful Sherlock, an absolute vision. Oh, I cannot wait for John to see you” she tittered, and Sherlock took a deep breath, meeting his own eyes in the mirror and steeling himself for the night ahead.

_You can do this, you care for him. He asked you to dinner._

“It’s time love, dinner is on the table. He’s waiting” She said gently, and Sherlock moved automatically to the door.

 _Calm down,_ Sherlock thought, _it’s just dinner._

* * *

 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ _No._ ”

“Yes.”

“NO,” he roared, and Lestrade only cocked a silver eyebrow in response.

“Fine,” the beast grumbled, and he sank into the tub, secretly enjoying the warmth against his matted fur but refusing to give Lestrade the dignity of being right.

“Don’t you want to look your best for Sherlock?” Lestrade asked as the magic brushes began to stroke through his fur, washing it free and untangling the man knots, the objects ignoring John’s huffs of pain when they snagged on a particularly stubborn knot.

John flushed beneath his fur at the question, and nodded slightly, seeing how Lestrade beamed at him and ushered his newly washed body out of the quickly cooling water.

Towels ran over his body, cleaning it of the excess water and causing his hair to turn shiny and fluffy, and he glared at Lestrade’s poorly covered laughter at the sight of his softened master.

Then he went over to his bed, and looked at the clothes laid out, rolling his eyes at Lestrade.

"Lestrade, I can't wear this!" John growled at the candelabra who was holding out his flickering candles in a calming manner.

"You can, master, it is only one night, and it is a nice jacket," he argued back. John picked up the clothes and began quickly tugging them onto his enormous frame, and then walked over to the cracked mirror. Lestrade beamed at him, but John only scowled in the mirror, preferring himself to be in his usual torn trousers and cloak, rather than the constricting outfits that actually showed off his monster-like form.

The blue jacket was rather nice, he would internally admit, and the trousers were fit and clean for once. The shirt was cut in a low V, showing off his muscular chest, and he was hoping that Sherlock could find him even a little bit appealing.

“Come now, master,” Lestrade said with a smile and a flare of his candles in excitement, “It’s time for dinner.”

John looked once more in the mirror and, wincing, turned away, hoping that he would be deemed appropriate by Sherlock. 

* * *

 

As Sherlock walked into the formal dining room, and saw hundreds of candle’s lighting the room with a soft, romantic glow, he flushed, realizing the implications of this particular dinner.

Romance, he was being romanced.

The beast stood up as soon as Sherlock walked into the room, going to great him and bowing automatically, as if a reflex from his past life. Sherlock smiled at the thought of the human man shining through the beast, and took the offered arm, allowing himself to be led to the table and seated, and ignoring Lestrade who was making kissing faces at him.

A beat of silence passed between them, their mutual nervousness palpable.

“You look-“

“How ar-“

They both chuckled at the awkwardness of the situation, both relaxing at the realization that they were not alone. The beast looked very fine, Sherlock noted, with his long, usually unruly hair tied back in a deep blue ribbon, complementing his eyes and the deep blue of the jacket he wore. His pants were new and in no way ripped, and his undershirt had ruffles with a low-V that made his chest appear even wider.

Sherlock gulped and took a sip of wine.

“You do look lovely tonight, Sherlock,” the beast said sincerely after a moment, and Sherlock’s cheeks bloomed high with color, the beast watching hungrily as the blush dipped beneath Sherlock’s collar and cleared his throat in response to his inappropriate thoughts.

“Thank you, you look very fine as well. Princely, even,” Sherlock responded, realizing too late what he had implied and wishing that he could take it back. It was too late; the beast was staring at him curiously, without a hint of anger, but a look of deep contemplation gracing his features.

“How much do you know about the magic in this castle, Sherlock?” The beast asked, and Sherlock pondered how to answer such a loaded question momentarily, taking a bite of his dinner and chewing slowly before deciding the best course of action was to be honest.

“I know that Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Rosie and the other magical objects used to be people, but where changed by a curse set on the castle,” Sherlock gulped, ignoring the dark gaze of the beast scanning his features and continuing, “I know the curse somehow involved a prince, a prince in the destroyed painting in your bedchambers.”

The beast winced, and Sherlock hoped he hadn’t ruined their night by reminding them both of that particular fiasco, caused by his curious tendencies and John's anger issues. 

Sherlock said no more, and the beast watched him for a moment, taking a bite of food and thinking.

“Sherlock, what do you know about me? Do you know who I am?” The beast asked plainly, a hint of trepidation and, perhaps hope, lingering in his voice.

Sherlock took a deep breath, preparing for the worst, and said, “you’re Prince John.”

“Yes, well I was. No longer, now I am this…. Creature” The beast trailed off, his mind seeming to wander far away from this room and time, but Sherlock was desperate to make the most of this conversation.

“John” Sherlock braved his name, and the beast turned his head in shock, “you and I, in this moment, we are allowed to just be human”

“What, even you, the beautiful genius who far exceeds us all?” The beast asked sarcastically, pushing his plate away and Sherlock could se his infamous temper beginning to flair.

“No, John, even _you_ are allowed to be human, flaws and all,” Sherlock said, standing from his chair and walking up to the beast and laying his hands over the paws, cradling them in his thin fingers and large palms.

“How did you learn my name?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “come now John, each resident of this castle was once a human. It wasn’t a far leap to make. And in your chambers I was a ripped portrait of a prince, and when I asked Mrs. Hudson, she told me that his name was John.” Sherlock replied, laying out the facts on the table as if they were child’s play, and John gave a wet laugh, pulling his paws away from Sherlock’s hands and standing back for Sherlock’s perusal, looking deprecatingly down at himself in disgust..

“Do I look like a man to you?” John asked bitterly, gesturing to his monstrous form, but Sherlock only grinned slightly and pointed to his eyes.

“It’s in your eyes John, every time I mention something adorable Rosie did, or whenever I do something you find endearing despite your best efforts to separate yourself from me.” Sherlock announced, articulating John’s weaknesses to sentiment, laying him bare.

John shook his head, “Sherlock, I can’t-“

“Shh, I know you have a heart John, and we’re friends now, aren’t we?” Sherlock asked quietly, biting his lip as if worried John would reject him, and John had to stifle a shocked laugh.

John was completely, ardently in love with the idiot in this moment, with the candlelight dancing off of his freshly cleaned features and bouncing curls. And it took Sherlock Holmes laying out the facts before his very eyes for him to _see._

“Dance with me,” he said in lieu of a confession, and Sherlock smiled and pulled him from the dining room and into the ballroom with gusto, a hop in his step at the thought of dancing, which he had always enjoyed as a child. 

The ballroom had been cleaned for the occasion, and every chandelier was lit with gleaming candles that made the golden detailing and angelic artwork all the more visible. It also made Sherlock look that much more ethereal.

A waltz began to play once they were in the center, something bittersweet and played on a solo violin, and John looked adorably lost about what to do. Sherlock smiled reassuringly, and stepped up, placing one of John’s paws around his shoulder and one around his lean waist, allowing the beast to lead them through their dance, "one, two, three," Sherlock instructed softly, and the beast's eyes dipped to look at his plush lips. They continued their first dance, both feeling equal parts bashful and emboldened. 

 _The first of many dances, I hope,_ Sherlock thought with a contented sigh, happily swaying in John’s arms to the beautiful music in the candlelight, feeling utterly safe with the once terrifying beast. The scene was like a passage in his sister’s romance novels, but far more lovely, because it was real.

John accidentally stepped on Sherlock’s foot to his great amusement, and Sherlock stumbled once or twice, having gotten lost in John’s eyes, but that was what made the moment perfect.

Sherlock imagined if the waltz had a name, it would be their song, with a tentative beginning, and a rising crescendo of passion, finally settling into something andante and sweeter. _Beauty and the Beast._  

John held onto Sherlock tightly, cherishing the sensations of holding the vulnerable yet unbelievably strong beauty in his arms. He never wanted to let him go. 

After an indiscernible amount of time had passed in perfect loveliness, the music and dancing came to a natural end and, without saying anything, Sherlock and John slowly walked outside to the balcony overlooking the gardens, and ignoring the titters coming from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in the ballroom.

The night was perfect, spring was on its way by now and although the wind was a bit sharp, it felt good on Sherlock’s overheated body from the John’s proximity and attentions.

John coughed slightly, and when Sherlock looked over, he was holding out a pink rose.

A sign of blooming desire was the meaning of pink roses, Sherlock recalled from his Botany book, and his cheeks reheated to match the color of his rose as he delicately plucked the blossom from the beast’s hands, pulling it close and smelling the clean fragrance and wishing, for a moment, that he would be brave enough to steal a kiss.

Sherlock had never been courted before, but he found he quite enjoyed the sensation. The two of them sat on a bench right outside the gardens and enjoyed the quiet atmosphere and the glow of the moonlight.

“Are you happy here, Sherlock?” John asked after a moment, and Sherlock smiled, twirling his rose around his fingers and looking out over the landscape before meeting the beast’s eyes.

“Yes, I am, I just-“ Sherlock bit his lip, but continued, “I wish I could see my father. Just to make sure that he is okay.” Sherlock turned away for a moment, before the beast caught his arm and gently pulled Sherlock around the face him once more.

“Come with me” John stood up, gesturing for Sherlock to follow, and up they went, up the spiral staircase to John’s destroyed chambers and to the balcony and the rose. Sherlock noticed the chambers were much the same, if a bit cleaner, and his eyes were caught again by the shredded picture of the man, wishing to know what happened to John to make him turn into a beast. And what was the significance of the glowing rose?

John picked up the magic mirror, and interrupting Sherlock's musing, told him to speak his father’s name.

Sherlock, consumed by the air of mystery around John, but trusting John, spoke “Siger Holmes” into the night in a confused tone, engrossed as the mirror swirled with colors and Sherlock saw his father reflected back to him.

He let out a wet-sounding laugh at his father’s wrinkled face after so many months apart, but soon realized his father’s face was set in one of panic. Then, Sherlock looked to the side of his father and saw none other than Moriarty.

“Tomorrow night Siger, if your son is not back, you’re going to the loony bin, and there is nothing that you or your clever Mycroft can do about it. The whole town heard your proclamation about the so called ‘beast’ in the woods, and you know they will support whatever I say,” Moriarty threatened with a cackle of glee.

“One day,” he muttered, walking out the door as Siger dropped his head in his hands, looking completely lost while Mycroft stood on, looking murderous but lost as well.

Sherlock almost dropped the mirror, dropping into a nearby chair: “Oh, oh God my father! I can’t let him go to that horrid place” Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to stave off his panic while John looked on with a saddened expression, staring at the rose which was almost completely wilted.

 _Oh, Sherlock,_ John whispered to himself, _how I wish life were different. I wish I could be the man to save you, always._

John knew Sherlock must go, go to a place he could not follow. The townspeople would kill him if he went with Sherlock, and Sherlock did not belong in his world. A beauty such as Sherlock deserved to go out into the world and live out his dreams, to grow fully and not become stunted by imprisonment from the light.

"Then you must go," John said, avoiding Sherlock's eyes when they glanced upwards to meet his own, turning away to stare at the dying enchanted rose. Sherlock stood still as a statue, and they both watched another petal fall. 


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock gazed up at John after a moment, tears glistening in his virescent eyes, “I don’t want to leave you.”

John clenched his paws into fists, turning away to face the window so he wouldn’t have to watch Sherlock any longer, as it was too agonizing, “you must.”

A hand was placed on his arm, and John took a deep breath, gazing down into Sherlock’s eyes that were filled with sadness and something akin to pity.

John turned and grasped the magic mirror, handing it to Sherlock and gently folding the frozen fingers around the looking glass, the hands that were still clutching the pink rose desperately.

“So you will always have a way to look and… remember me,” John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head, looking down at the mirror in his hands, “I’ll come back, I promise.”

John smiled sadly at that, because of course Sherlock would volunteer to walk back into his prison willingly not once, but twice.

And besides, Sherlock would most likely have to get married to that man who threatened his father if he could not think of another solution, but John wouldn’t discount Sherlock’s cleverness.

“No Sherlock, go travel. Go back to Sussex to your bees, your family. Live your life, promise me,” John turned to fully face the young man that, within the course of almost two months, had become the center of his universe. The first person he thought of each morning, the person reoccurring nightly in his pleasant dreams that were once filled with war and pain.

John watched Sherlock clench his eyes shut, two glistening tear tracks making their way down his sharp cheekbones, and John reached out to gently wipe them away, watching Sherlock nuzzle his face into the fur of his palm.

_Oh, Sherlock._

Then Sherlock turned, rushing to the door to hurry home and save his father, ever the hero. The hero John wished he could be.

John turned back to face the window, looking out over the balcony and seeing the chilly spring breeze rustle the trees of the woods in the distance.

“John, you are the best, bravest, and wisest man I’ve ever had the pleasure to know,” Sherlock whispered through the dark bedchamber, and John felt tears begin to slip from his eyes as he stared out the window, not responding, and feeling as though his heart would never beat again.

Sherlock left.

* * *

 

A few moments later, Mrs. Hudson came into the beast's bedchambers, and John gave a warning growl, indicating that he wished to be left alone.

“Where is Sherlock going?” She asked, ignoring his growls, as she was wont to do. John shook his head; mustering up what little energy he had left.

“Sherlock’s father was threatened, by a man in Sherlock’s town, and he will be put away if Sherlock does not go back and marry the man,” John said, his stomach churning at the idea of Sherlock being forced into marriage, but knowing that he could not help Sherlock in this.

Sherlock needed freedom like he needed air, and he would find a way to have it, away from this castle and from his husband to be. Always optimistic, his Sherlock, John thought with a bittersweet smile.

Mrs. Hudson watched his expression with growing understanding, “you’ve learned to love. So you're letting him go.”

John did not answer, and went over to the chair, hunching in the corner, “I wish to be alone now.”

Lestrade and Molly were out in the hallway, Molly’s clock-face reading midnight and Lestrade's candles flickering in the darkened chamber.

“What did he say?” Asked Molly curiously.

“Not much,” Mrs. Hudson admitted, “but Sherlock has to leave to save his father, and potentially marry another, and John gave Sherlock his freedom to return home.”

“What!” Lestrade exclaimed, “but they were getting so close, I felt sure they were falling in love.”

“I think they were, Lestrade,” Molly said gently, “but as they never admitted their feelings, the curse remains unbroken.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, “and after all this, the master has finally learned to love…. But it wasn’t enough, because Sherlock may not love him back. The rose has maybe days left, we’ve lost our chance.”

Lestrade and Molly looked disbelieving at the thought of Sherlock not loving John, remembering the looks Sherlock always shot at John, always laughing when he was around with a besotted smile, but they stayed silent. It was too late.

The three of them hopped down the corridor, parting ways as Mrs. Hudson went to find Sherlock.

* * *

 

Sherlock dashed down the familiar corridors of his home for the past two months, feeling fresh tears trace down his face as he hurried to pack and begin the journey to Sussex.

As he was taking off his fine clothing, changing into the simple trousers, shirt and cloak he had worn to the castle all those weeks ago, Mrs. Hudson came by to wish him goodbye.

“The master told me you must go to your father,” she announced gently, and Sherlock nodded, the words clogged in his throat.

“He also told me he released you, that he gave you your freedom,” she continued, and Sherlock released a choked sob, looking down to the mirror and the pink rose the beast had gifted him. How had it come to this? After such happiness, he was going to be thrust into Moriarty's arms. 

Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand, “John is doing this because he believes it is best. You’ve changed him Sherlock, in ways you cannot even imagine. We will be alright, take care of him.”

But Sherlock wanted to care for John, help him see the man in the mirror that shown through his cerulean eyes every time he so much as glanced at Sherlock. The man who laughed at Sherlock’s character voices when he read aloud in the library, who struggled using utensils at the table but kept trying fruitlessly, even though Sherlock only found it endearing and wished he would just use his hands.

But he knew his papa needed him, and so what choice did he have?

“Yes, I know. I will miss you all,” Sherlock said with a thick voice, leaning down to pick up Mrs. Hudson gently and place a kiss on her ceramic cheek, “please give Rosie my love.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, and watched Sherlock pack the looking glass. He glanced around the room one last time, and picking up his pack and his rose, turned to leave.

He rushed out, refusing to say any more goodbyes. He found Philip munching on straw in the stables and quickly saddled and mounted the steed, rushing down the cobbled pathway to the enchanted castle, never looking back.

A howl sounded as he raced past the iron gates, and Sherlock did not ponder on the meaning behind the anguished roar.

Glancing down at the pink rose in his palm, Sherlock gripped it tightly despite the thorns, and watched as his hand began to drip blood.


	17. Chapter 17

Upon entering Sussex half a day later, just when the sun was rising above the pine trees and the first buds of spring were beginning to bloom, Sherlock watched as his father raced from their country house, his eyes wide at seeing Sherlock approaching with Philip and shouting out to him.

Sherlock dismounted Philip in one graceful swoop and ran forward to meet his father along the dirt path, hugging him desperately and crying out, “papa!”

“I’m here, bee, I’m right here,” the man said, his voice choked with tears, disbelieving he was holding his son in his arms once more. Sherlock nuzzled further into his chest, the feeling of home washing over him and settling his frayed nerves.

He pulled back slightly, still gripping Sherlock by his upper arms as if to make sure he was truly there, “what are you doing here, my child? I thought-“

“John let me go,” he said, taking in his father’s confused expression and correcting himself, “the beast, John. He is nothing like he seemed on that first night. He was-“ Sherlock paused, trying to think of a word to describe his enigmatic friend, his face turning up in a bittersweet expression, “understanding.”

Sherlock’s father peered at him, assessing for a moment. Finally he said, “I want to hear the whole story,” picking up Sherlock’s pack and leading him back inside the house with an arm around his shoulders.

Sherlock took in the sights of his old home, the ash marks around the fireplace and the comforting smell of the kitchen with baking bread. He strode over to the cupboard and plucked up a beaker from his old science experiments, filled it with water from the bucket and placed his pink rose from the beast inside, watching as the rose, worn from the ride and Sherlock’s grip upon it, settled against the side of the glass with a soft click.

To finally be home, with his papa, was all Sherlock had truly wanted only two months ago, crying in his bedchambers at night in the enchanted castle and wishing more fervently than he had ever wished before. But now, after everything, Sherlock could not help but miss John with a present ache in his chest.

Sherlock was broken from his recollections by his father gesturing to the armchair in front of the fire, sitting in his own and watching Sherlock with an uncharacteristically solemn expression on his normally jovial face.

“Now then,” Siger said, lighting his old pipe and taking a long inhale of the tobacco, “you’ve told me the beast let you go, but I wish to know why.”

Sherlock braced himself, and lent down to pull the looking glass from his pack, handing it to his father.

“This is magic. John gave it to me, so I would be able to-“ Sherlock bit his lip, remembering John's final words sadly, “I would be able to look back to him. It allows you to call the name of whomever you wish to see, and view them. See them in the present moment,” Sherlock turned away, looking past his papa to look at his rose, remembering the first blossoms of desire he had been feeling around the beast before he was called home- his duty as a loving son more important than the beginning air of desire.

Sherlock clasped his hands together, feeling another pang in his chest at the thought of John now, alone in the castle. At least Mrs. Hudson assured they would take care of him.

Siger glanced down at the magic mirror and back to his son, who was looking at the rose sitting in the kitchen with a pained expression on his pallid face. Taking another puff from his pipe, Siger contemplated his next words carefully so as to not upset his son further.

“So, with this looking glass, you saw our present troubles?” Sherlock sighed and nodded, looking down to his hands.

“I wish there was another way,” said Sherlock, wringing his hands further in agitation, “I don’t wish to marry Moriarty, but you cannot go to the asylum.”

Siger smiled gently to himself, looking to his endlessly caring son. Coming home, when he obviously did not want to leave the beast, for whatever reason, to save his papa, “you are not going to marry Moriarty, my boy. It is out of the question-“ Siger raised a hand against Sherlock’s protests- “like I’ve said before, I have lived my life. It is time you live yours.”

“I wish it was that simple papa,” Sherlock sighed, “we will have to wait and see what comes with nightfall. Where is Mycroft?”

“He is trying to contact the town’s lawyers to work on my case defense, but he has been gone all night, so I am worried as to his whereabouts as well. Katherine is the only one of you that never runs off,” Siger said with a choked voice, and Sherlock reached forward to grasp his hand, squeezing it gently.

“We will solve this, of that I am sure.”

* * *

 

 When nightfall came, there was no Mycroft in sight, and Siger had sent Katherine away to stay in London with a distant cousin for her protection. Now, Sherlock paced at the door, waiting for Moriarty to come, and tugging his hair, frustrated at his inability to come up with a solution.

But Moriarty arrived all the same, along with his underhanded crew and some of the townsfolk, numbering them to be at least twenty in number, holding torches in the dusky twilight with a prison cage tugged behind a horse, the words asylum printed on with morbid red letters.

Moriarty and his right hand man, Moran, came to the door and knocked. Sherlock swung open the door in a fury, his face set in a stony glare, but Moriarty only smiled in delight.

“Sherlock! You’re finally home, we were getting _awfully_ worried,” he simpered with a mock-pout upon his pasty face. He winked at him, and shoved past and into their home, looking for Siger, seeing him standing beside the fireplace, his back ramrod straight and watching the flames.

“Siger, my good chap, have we come to an agreement then? Sherlock’s hand for your freedom?”

“No,” Siger whispered, still gazing into the fire as if in a trance, “I will never let Sherlock marry the likes of you.”

“Well, lets see what Sherlock has to say, shall we?” Moriarty proclaimed, unperturbed, as he danced back over to Sherlock to peer up into his face, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Do we have a deal, Sherlock?”

“Where is my brother?” Sherlock countered, watching as Moriarty’s face slid into one of fake innocence. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching closely for any hints.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Sherlock, do you Moran?”

Moran grinned, pleased, “no, sir, no sign of Mycroft.”

Sherlock watched Moran’s pleased, twisted face, and realized his brother was not simply lost. No, Moriarty’s gang of thief’s and criminals took his brother, perhaps as an extra incentive to walk down the aisle.

“So there, Sherlock, now, answer my question,” Moriarty demanded, smiling crookedly as the crowd outside grew more rowdy and increased in volume, wanting bloodshed.

Moriarty and Sherlock looked at one another, the two geniuses deducing one another in the silence of the house, with Moran and Siger watching on with growing trepidation. Finally Moriarty’s face broke out in a crooked grin.

“Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

Sherlock glared, knowing that Moriarty was involved with his brother’s disappearance, knowing he was unable to prove it, and knowing he would get nothing more out of the wily man.

“Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock replied evenly, not backing down as Moriarty approached until they were standing chest to chest, stormy eyes staring into cold, black irises.

“I told you Sherlock, that game is over. Daddy’s had enough now,” he sang with in a twisted voice, “Marriage to _moi_ or your father’s incarceration, now choose.”

Suddenly, a mad thought struck Sherlock, and he ran to the fireplace, ignoring his father’s confused exclamation of his name, and raced straight out the door with the looking glass. The three men followed, and Sherlock addressed the crowd.

“People of Sussex, my father was telling the truth,” he shouted, and the townspeople and minions scoffed and laughed in amusement at the idea of a beast in the forest.

“I can prove it,” Sherlock yelled in desperation over the mounting volume of the dissatisfied crowd, “show me the beast!”

A roar emanated from the mirror in the next instant, the edges glittering from magic and John’s beastly body was displayed on the mirror’s face, he was roaring into the night on the balcony outside his bedchambers.

Screams and shocked gasps sounded from the crowd, and Sherlock tried to hush them saying, “he is not dangerous. He is educated and rational. He was-“ Sherlock paused, thinking, “kind to me.”

Moriarty scoffed, snatching the mirror away and looking at the beast and then back to Sherlock’s face as he watched the creature with a tender expression tinged in sadness. Sherlock held _affection_ for the monster, Moriarty thought with a startled laugh, and a sparkle in his eye of a new plan.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you had feelings for this monster,” Moriarty accused, and Sherlock flinched. _Yes._

Moriarty turned to the crowd, who had come to Siger Holmes’ house for bloodshed, “I say we kill the beast! After all, he is a danger to our way of life, he cannot be that far away if Siger and his boy stumbled across him,” Moriarty said in a shout, and the crowd began to murmur their agreement to one another.

Sherlock panicked, his heart picking up speed at the thought of an angry mob attacking John, and tried to take the mirror back desperately, but Moran held him back, “no, wait, he isn’t dangerous, _mmhm,_ ” Moran covered his mouth in the next instant, muffling his protests, and try as Sherlock might, he could not escape Moriarty’s underling.

“If you’re not with us, you’re against us!” Moriarty said with a maniacal grin, and the crowd cheered in agreement. A group of Moriarty’s gang grabbed at Sherlock and Siger and drew them forward to the cage meant for the asylum, Sherlock fought back, kicking at his captors shins and aiming for their eyes, but all he received in return was a punch in the stomach and a cut on his neck from a knife.

 _A knife, that’s it,_ Sherlock thought wildly. In a moment of clarity, Sherlock reached a free hand into the pocket of the minion to his right and snatched out a small knife, shoving it down his pants before the minion took hold of his arm again, yanking it roughly behind him and causing Sherlock to cry out.

The men threw them inside the cage and Moriarty came forward to lock it, smirking at Sherlock as he glared back, staunching the blood flow from a cut over his eye.

“I’ll come back for you darling, once I’ve taken care of this pesky beast that stands in the way,” Moriarty soothed, letting his fingers come through the cages to stroke Sherlock’s cheek and receiving a sharp bite on his fingers for his trouble. He winced and reared back, shock on his face.

“Perhaps the beast allowed you your freedom, but you’ll find that I prefer my pets to be far more _submissive_ ” he leered, turning around.

“He isn’t a beast” Sherlock called out in frustration, “he was a man! He is a good person, please, I’ll do as you ask, I’ll m-marry you. Just don’t hurt John,” Sherlock pleaded.

“So that’s his name,” Moriarty said to himself quietly, “John. The beast.”

Moriarty turned around, walking straight up to the cage and leaning in, “you’re in love with the beast. You’ve fallen in love with him, despite the fact that I am your intellectual and physical equal, you fall for a monster like him,” Moriarty growled, his anger palpable, and Sherlock shivered from the chill of the night around the cage.

Still, he raised his head and met Moriarty’s dead eyes, a grimace twisting his normally contented face, “he is not a monster Moriarty, _you_ are.”

The cruel man’s face split in a smirk once more, “you have no idea the kind of monster I am, my dear.”

With that parting slot, he turned back to face to crowd, lifting up a pitchfork and a torch, “let’s go kill the beast! All men, on your horses, take up your weapons and follow me!” Moriarty announced, and the men cheered, ignoring Sherlock’s cries as they headed the way Sherlock had come only hours before.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor violence. Comments/kudos are appreciated.

Sherlock waited until the last flames had receded into the tree line before pulling out the small knife he had stolen, thankful that it did not fall during the scuffle, and began to pick the lock on the cage with precision, his fingers trembling slightly with adrenaline and fear.

“Sherlock? What are you….?“

“ _Shh,”_ Sherlock interrupted his papa, focusing on the task at hand.

 _Just a little to the left, there!_ Sherlock rejoiced as the lock broke free, and he pushed open the cage, jumping out and then helping his father.

“I have to go and help John, papa,” Sherlock said, already turning to race towards the stables where Philip was being held, but his papa grabbed his arm in a vice grip.

“I’m going with you,” he replied, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No, go into town, to the tavern, and try to find Mycroft. I will send word as soon as I can,” Sherlock announced, his father following him to the stables.

Siger sighed, “very well, Sherlock, but be careful. You’re no match for Moriarty on your own.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened, mounting Philip and grabbing a touch from a nearby stall, “we will see. I love you, papa.”

With that, Sherlock rode off, racing as quickly as he possibly could to help John.

Sherlock clutched the reigns tighter and prayed he wouldn’t be too late.

* * *

 

“Master! A mob is approaching the castle,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, rushing into John’s chamber and relaying the news.

As the despondent beast looked impassively out the window, he viewed the firelight coming from just outside the iron gates, and with his advanced hearing could make out the sound of men shouting.

He knew that nothing would stop them, remembering his many conquests as a young army man and the joy he once took in battles.

“Let them in,” John whispered, clutching his cape tighter around himself.

“No, John, we can fight them off,” Mrs. Hudson declared desperately, but John did not respond, he simply stared out the window into the cold spring night, with whispers of flurries falling from the gloomy sky as if foreshadowing the coming events.

“It’s over Mrs. Hudson, the curse is almost complete, and he is gone,” John replied, his voice hollow, and Mrs. Hudson sighed, turning away to come up with a her own plan.

When Mrs. Hudson found Lestrade, Molly and Rosie in the kitchen, she instructed Molly to hide Rosie in the cupboard, and then help her plan their attack.

“They want to harm John, and I know the three of us will not willingly let that happen. I say we boil water, as much as we can, and when they enter the foyer, we wait for them to stop just under the balcony and then let them have it!” Mrs. Hudson suggested, and Lestrade and Molly agreed, filling their largest pots with water and then boiling them on the fire stove.

The stove, and enchanted object like so many of the castle’s past residents, carried the boiling water down the hallway to the balcony overlooking the foyer, while Mrs. Hudson gave battle instructions to the other objects in the castle.

“We need weapons, go to the armory, all of you, and see what you can use.”

They all went to the armory, brooms and hairbrushes, dressers and chairs, and picked up whatever weapons the objects could wield, before heading down to the entranceway.

“Protect this castle!” Mrs. Hudson demanded, and the objects clanked, tinkered, and hopped their assent.

They were not going down without a fight.

* * *

Moriarty’s eye’s gleamed as they set eyes on the enchanted castle for the first time, wondering if perhaps once this was over if he could move into the dark palace. With a smirk, he instructed the men to begin chopping down the large oaken doors.

Once a sizable hole had been cut free, the men began to enter one by one into the darkened foyer, seeing household objects lying about everywhere.

“Alright men, take whatever spoils you wish, but the beast is mine,” Moriarty declared with a demented laugh, picking up his sword and heading deeper into the castle, leaving his men behind in the darkened entranceway.

“It is a mess, isn’t it?” Moran declared, picking up a candelabra on the way and lighting it’s candles with his torch.

As he was looking around for anything of value, he heard a man yell in his ear, “ _Now!_ ”

Glancing up in shock, he looked forward to see ten of his men being drenched with boiling water, and were screaming and howling in pain, their flesh mangled and in some places, hanging off, steam swirling all around them. Moran cringed in disgust and took a step back, feeling something burning around his arm.

Looking down, he saw the candelabra with a scowling face. The candlestick holder said, “get out of our castle!” It was the same voice who had yelled, Moran realized, his eyes widening in shock.

Worse still, when he realized the sleeve to his jacket was on fire.

Screaming shrilly, Moran dropped the talking candelabra with a clang and tried to put out the fire on his arm, hitting it wildly and trying to rip off his jacket, his arm beginning to blister and burn from the sensation.

Finally, with the jacket off and the fire adverted, Moran clutched at his arm and looked at the pandemonium around him. A dresser was slamming a man’s head in the draws until he was knocked unconscious; a small clock was whipping down the banister with a knife and proceeded to plunge it into a man’s vulnerable neck with a decidedly feminine cry.

The stove and the teapot were pouring more boiling water on the already pained but still lucid and moving, gaggle of men beneath the banister, who were once again crying out in agony, many of them now unconscious.

Five other men were standing safely at the entrance to the door, watching the insanity of the objects fighting, and turned to run, Moran followed, shouting “retreat.” The men mounted their horses to start back to Sussex, running away from the haunted palace.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Moriarty found himself walking down a dreary hallway, finding claw marks abundant on the art and destroyed curtains, and he grinned, his eyes flashing at the promise of a kill.

Coming to a halt outside of a room at the very end of the hall, he pushed open the door slowly and glanced around, seeing destroyed portraits, a king sized-bed, and a glowing rose that appeared to be dying. Approaching the rose, Moriarty saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Get. Out.” The voice commanded lowly, with a growl in his tone, and Moriarty smiled and turned, holding his sword out and addressing the beast.

He truly was a fearsome creature, he thought absently, at least double Moriarty’s width and standing almost two heads above him, but it was no matter, Moriarty had destroyed larger and more difficult adversaries before.

Besides, he thought with a grin, this was for Sherlock.

“No, I don’t think I will. You’re mine now,” Moriarty giggled, his laugh sounding too high and loud in the darkened room, and the beast cocked his head in confusion at the mentally unstable man.

During the beast’s perusal of him, Moriarty swung, the beast dipping out of the way just in time for the sword to wedge itself in the four poster bedframe.

“Do you know who I am?” Moriarty asked nonchalantly, and the beast nodded once, turning his face away in disgust.

“You will never marry him,” the beast murmured lowly, and Moriarty shook his head in reply.

“I will, because he will have no other choice. If I don’t hurt his father, I will hurt his brother, and we both know how _kind_ Sherlock is,” Moriarty shivered as if the mere idea revolted him.

Finally pulling his sword free, Moriarty turned to the beast who was backing away from him, hands up in surrender. Moriarty kept him moving until he was outside, leaning with his back against the balcony.

“Did you really think he could love you, beast?” Moriarty hissed, “love someone like you when he could have a genius, a man like me?”

The beast’s saddened eyes closed in defeat, not answering and waiting for the final blow. Moriarty smiled at the defeated creature before him, and lifted his arm for the final blow.

“ _Stop!_ ” A velvety cry sounded from the doorway, and the beast’s eyes flew open in shock.

It was Sherlock. Sherlock came back for him, to _save_ him.

As Moriarty swung his sword forward once more, the beast roared and knocked his paw forward, sending the sword flying through the air. It fell to the ground with a clang on the flattened rooftop below, forgotten.

Moriarty drew forward with a snarl, launching himself at the beast and causing them both to fall over the back of the balcony. The beast cringed at Sherlock’s cry when he fell over the side of the castle, and he hit the rooftop just below with a hard grunt, Moriarty landing just beside him.

Then the beast grabbed Moriarty around the neck, hauling them both to their feet and holding the small man in the death grip as Moriarty panted and kicked out.

 _I could kill him with just a snap of his neck,_ John realized, thinking back to the wolf. But John knew that he had to start being the man Sherlock deserved. No more killing, no more wars.

“Leave now, and never return. You will not harm Sherlock or his family any longer,” the beast growled, pushing him away and looking up, seeing Sherlock standing on the balcony just above, looking down him with apprehension and fear in his eyes.

“ _John!_ Are you okay? Please tell me you aren’t hurt,” he exclaimed, and John smiled at Sherlock to reassure the young man that yes, he would be alright now.

Apparently, though, his expression was not enough. Seeing the alarm on Sherlock’s face remaining, he began to climb up the dark grey walls and the slanted rooftop back up to the balcony, hardly able to believe Sherlock was standing there, looking at him.

“John, please, you scared me. I-I thought you were falling to your d-death,” Sherlock stammered, the adrenaline fading away and leaving in its wake complete dread at the events that almost occurred.

The beast only smiled, having reached the rungs of the balcony, so close to Sherlock. He hauled himself up, standing just on the other side of the balcony and peering into Sherlock’s beautiful, changeable eyes. John never wished to see anything else, as long as he lived.

Sherlock reached forward, placing a delicate hand on his expansive chest to feel his heartbeat, and John placed his paw over Sherlock’s hand, drawing their fingers together.

 _I’m yours,_ John thought.

Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in his side, and John released a pained roar, losing his grip on the balcony and beginning to tip backwards.

Sherlock grasped John’s cloak, and pulled him forward, yelling out at the strain it caused his smaller body to hold onto the beast, and looked around wildly to see what had happened.

Moriarty had thrust his recovered sword into John’s side. It was already darkening his cloak with blood.

Holding onto the base of John’s cloak and hanging in midair, Moriarty turned his deadened eyes to meet Sherlock's one more time, and with a wink, he let go and fell to the bottom of the ravine, never to be seen or heard from again.

Sherlock then pulled John forward; holding him as he gently laid him on the ground of the balcony, taking off his cloak to create a makeshift pillow for John’s head.

John grunted as Sherlock moved his own torn cloak away from his side to analyze his wound. Sherlock realized the cut was deep at would have hit some of his internal organs due to the size and depth of the entrance wound.

Internally hating his deductive abilities for rationalizing the dire situation, Sherlock looked up to peer into John’s calm blue eyes.

John’s breathing was already labored, and his eyes were half shut from exhaustion and pain, but he smiled at Sherlock, reaching up to stroke his face.

It was only then that Sherlock realized he was weeping.

Shaking his melancholy away, Sherlock gathered up the torn remnants of John’s cloak, holding them against the wound and putting pressure, his heart aching at John’s small grunt of pain.

“Shh, everything will be alright, you’ll see,” Sherlock whispered, petting John’s fur on the arm that was still stroking his face, and tilting his head in to nuzzle into John’s paw as he had done only days before.

Only now, now everything was completely different.

“I’m just glad-“ John coughed, his breathing becoming more labored by the second, “that I got to see you, one last time.”

Sherlock’s tears fell faster, blurring his vision, and he blinked them away in annoyance as they were obscuring his view of John. Sherlock wished he could say everything would be wonderful, but his mind knew that John was dying.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock declared haughtily instead, his insult undermined by the way he was gently stroking John’s arm and chest, as if John was the most precious person in Sherlock’s world, which he was.

John gave a choked laugh, the laughter turning swiftly into a pained cough, his chest moving ever slower. Sherlock wiped his eyes once more, and watched as a tear trickled down John’s face and settled in his chestnut fur, glistening in the moonlight.

John closed his eyes, and Sherlock panicked, digging into his side to cause him pain in order to wake him up and crying out to him.

“No John, you can’t sleep!” Sherlock yelled, softly shaking the beast, “wake up, John,” but John’s hand had grown limp across Sherlock’s face, and fell to the cold ground of the balcony.

Sherlock stared for a moment longer before his anguished sobs could no longer be contained. He collapsed against John’s chest, burying his face in the soft fur and began pounding his fists on John’s body half-heartedly: “No, John please. Please, don’t leave me,” Sherlock choked out, his hands staining John’s torn shirt with his own blood.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Sherlock knew there was a risk, but they had been so close to the end, smiling at one another. Sherlock had come home, and everything was supposed to end happily ever after, just like in his mother’s storybooks.

But now his hands were drenched with blood that was not his own, and his mind was in complete chaos, thinking of different scenarios he should have done to save John.

Sherlock took a shuttering breath, clutching closer to the beast and curling up beside him, placing his head on his chest and whispering the words he had been waiting to utter his whole life, the life he had spent dreaming of a happily ever after that would never come: “I love you, John.”

Once he’d said the cursed words, he couldn't seem to stop, the heartbreaking mantra being repeated over and over like an epithet, the bottled emotions tumbling through: “I love you, I love you, please don’t leave me here alone.”

In the doorway, each with tears in their eyes, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly stood vigil, watching the young man mourn for his beast as the last rose petal fell to the ground.

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

In the stillness of the castle, an edge of grief settled over the few inhabitants standing on the balcony, looking over the man who had once been so brave and so kind, a man who had reclaimed those traits after many years of suffering.

But too late, it would seem, as the man’s body lay still and cold.

Sherlock’s heartbroken outburst had settled down into quiet weeping, but he still clutched the beast close; to be with him in death, it seemed.

A wind began to pick up in the air, and the rustling of crisp spring leaves began to join together in a soft harmony. The tones grew louder, and the wind grew stronger.

Sherlock glanced up, alerted by the sudden wind through his curls and looking through tear filled eyes to see John’s body begin to flicker with light. All around him, a singular gold began to shine ever brighter, and the melodious tunes off spring sounded around them. Sherlock sat back in shock as John’s body was lifted from the ground slowly, hovering a few feet in the air and defying the physical world.

 _Magic,_ Sherlock realized.

Sherlock stared on with mounting astonishment, and the three castle resident’s gasped in tandem as John’s body began to spin, a glow surrounding John similarly to the shining light that used to encase the enchanted rose.

The light surrounding him was transforming to a deep scarlet, twirling with the gold to create the intermingling of passion and life. John’s cloak wrapped around his mangled body, and bright beams shot out from his hands and feet.

 _You've learned to love and to be kind,_ an ethereal voice sounded above, and Sherlock realized it must have been the enchantress,  _do not forget these lessons._

Sherlock could not longer stand to peer at the brilliant lights shining from the beast, and shielded his eyes.

When he looked back, the beast was gone and the lights had dispersed. In his place, lying on the floor of the balcony, was a short blonde man.

He appeared to be in his thirties, with a face lined in a distinguished fashion, his hair was short and swept to the side, and his clothes, which were once befitting the beast, now hung off of him loosely as he was muscled but not immense. He appeared quite ordinary, and yet familiar, but Sherlock’s emotionally wrung brain could not deduce the meaning behind the man.

Until he opened his eyes: those cerulean eyes locking with Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock felt his all the air leave his exhausted body.

It was the beast, it was John.

Sherlock tried to stand, but his legs shook from the events, and he found he was quite immobile. John stood up, clutching the torn cloak to him and walking gracelessly over to Sherlock, stumbling on his newly formed legs and grabbing Sherlock's arm and helped him stand.

“It _is_ you,” Sherlock whispered, looking down- and that was new- at the man who once stood seven feet tall with fangs and claws. Now he looks like a man, just like anyone else. Still, it was John, and Sherlock knew that no matter the form, his beast that he fell in love with resided in this man, this amazing man, whom he loved.

“Yes, and you came back for me,” John said back, his voice wavering slightly.

“Of course I did, I love you,” Sherlock pronounced decidedly, stating a fact, but his eyes were tearing up once again, looking into the soft blue eyes and small grin on John’s face, and realizing he would never be without him again.

“I love you, Sherlock. You saved me,” John cried out in abandon, and grasped Sherlock’s neck, leaning forward and touching his lips chastely to Sherlock’s, reveling in the younger man’s gasp and encouraging the kiss to become deeper, a desperate meeting of lips that had too long been denied. He stroked Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones with his thumbs, feeling the heat beneath them and Sherlock’s rapid pulse when his hand slid down to his elegant neck.

 _God, he’s perfect,_ the two men thought as one.

As John nipped lightly at Sherlock’s plush lower lip and heard a tiny moan, a feeling of unbelievable happiness washed through him. He grinned into the kiss, feeling a spark pass through their lips and fizzle to the ground, a vibration running throughout the castle.

Leaning apart to breathe and looking around, they realized the spell had been broken.

The once dark palace now stood in all it’s light glory, the gargoyles changed into statues of saints and artists, the once desolate landscape full of color and life; the sun broke through, indicating the sunrise of a new day, and the clouds that had always seemed to permeate the castle were no more.

Even more noticeably, there was a silver-haired man, a mousy young woman, and an old woman standing in the doorway with tears in their eyes, shock on their faces, as they peered at Sherlock and John, together at last.

They were home.

* * *

 

“Oh John,” Mrs. Hudson broke first, running forward at a speed impressive for someone her age and enveloping the blonde man in a tight hug, squeezing a laugh out of him as he hugged back, kissing her cheek fondly as she positively squealed in happiness.

Mrs. Hudson moved on to hug Sherlock as Lestrade came forward, hugging John tightly and clasping his hand against his back with a few pumps, “I am so happy to see you, mate. It’s been a while.”

“Almost eight years,” John agreed with a slightly hysterical laugh, wanting to pinch himself to assure he was not dreaming or hallucinating of a much better life.

“Oh, I just knew Sherlock would be good for you. He is too sweet and kind to not have that affect on people, and look at how beautiful he is,” Mrs. Hudson cooed and Sherlock, who as per usual, blushed at attention being drawn to his qualities, preferring only his intellectual abilities to be praised.

John realized this, and decided it just wouldn’t do to have Sherlock believe he wasn’t worthy of praise for just being himself, and decided from then on to vocally praise Sherlock as often as needed for him to realize what a treasure he was.

“You’re absolutely right Mrs. Hudson, we owe our freedom to Sherlock, who is truly beautiful in every way,” he pronounced, and Sherlock, whose face had lost some of its high color, turned rosy once more as he turned away to hide.

John grabbed his arm, stepping close and wrapping his arms around the waist of the lanky young man, “I mean that Sherlock, don’t be embarrassed, it’s true.” Sherlock and John looked at one another, desire growing in their heated expressions as they began leaning in-

“Too true lad,” Lestrade agreed with a hard thump to Sherlock’s back, startling him and causing him to jump back, away from John, in shock. Sherlock turned to glare at the silver haired man when he realized he'd interrupted on purpose, but Lestrade just smirked and shrugged in response, where John just chuckled.

“None of that now, Lestrade. And speaking of love interests, where is Molly?” He asked.

“Right here! And I’ve brought someone else, too,” She said softly, and John turned to the doorway to see Molly and a little girl holding her hand.

“ _R-Rosie_ ,” John choked, looking as if he had seen a ghost for a moment before shaking the memories away, approaching slowly so as not to frighten the girl, “do you know who I am, darling?”

“Yes, you’re my papa,” Rosie said matter-of-factly, smiling up at him and John sank to the floor, settling himself on his knees and putting his head in his hands, beginning to cry. After all these years, all this time... He was unable to believe that a little girl whom he had loved from afar for so long, for almost eight years, could remember him, remember him as a man worthy of smiling at with her two teeth missing and her fine blonde hair, looking to all the world an angel. 

“She asked for you, all the time,” Molly explained tentatively,“so I found a picture of you from before and taught her that you were her papa, and while you lived in the castle, you two weren’t able to see each other, but that you were always watching out for her.”

John nodded at the truth, through the magic mirror he had watched over her lessons, her playtimes with Molly and Mrs. Hudson, her toddler sword fighting with Lesrtrade, always with a burning jealousy that he could not teach the little spitfire to fight himself. Rosie, at four years old for the past eight years, had remained as sweet as she had been, unmarred by the darkness in her surroundings. 

“You love me, yes?” Rosie asked in a blasé way only children can manage, and John looked up, tears still tracing down his cheeks, as he looked into the brown eyes of his ward- no, daughter.

He opened his arms, and Rosie giggled, running into his arms and clutching onto him tightly, “I will never be parted for you again, do you hear me. I love you,” John choked out, still feeling emotional and feeling tears drip down his face into Rosie’s fine golden locks. He knew eight years could not be erased, but now that Rosie could grow, this time he would be there for her, no more alcohol or cruelness, forced to shut her away from him for her safety and well-being. He would be there to love her, to teach her, and to guide her, as a father should.

He held Rosie close, cradling her against his chest as if she were a newborn, and refused to take his eyes away from her angelic face for even an instant.

That is, until the love of his life cleared his throat softly, approaching him to whisper, “John, I know you’ve missed Rosie, but we need to go check on the rest of the castle inhabitants. So follow me.”

Sherlock led John into his bedroom, John still holding Rosie in his arms, and he pushed him gently onto the bed, removing the torn and bloodied cloak from his shoulders and forced him to lie down, Rosie already dozing on his chest, curled up with a little thumb in her mouth, asleep to the world and completely trusting in the arms of her papa. 

“Just stay here, we will come back once everything is-“

Sherlock was cut off by Mrs. Hudson pushing him down on the bed next to John with a huff, causing John to laugh quietly, holding Rosie firmly so as not to wake her.

“You two are going to sleep, after everything that has happened, you’re both exhausted!” She whispered, seeming at her wit's end with the two boys in bed, but watching the little one with a fond expression on her face. Lestrade walked behind her and winked, ignoring Sherlock’s glare as he slipped out the open door.

“We will talk more once you’ve taken time to rest, and I will have Molly come by later so pick up Rosie so you can, well, _rest_ some more,” Mrs. Hudson finished with a salacious wink that had both the men pinking beneath their collars, before she was gone, closing the door with a click.

"So," Sherlock said after a moment, "this room is a disaster."

John snorted, nodding his head as he saw the ripped paintings, destroyed covers, sword marks on the bedpost and debris from the open door paired with the wind strewn across the floor. 

"Yes, I think it's time for a redecoration," he agreed with a put-upon sigh. Sherlock sat up from the bed for a moment, going over to the table to pick up the now petal-less rose stem, frowning at it. 

The rose that had started it all, he remembered John's anger, his rash decision to run away, the wolves, the forgiveness, the library, the stories, the kisses, the dancing.

But most of all, Sherlock remembered the magic rose. The exquisiteness of the blossom which held so much meaning, a reminder that love and kindness do matter, that Sherlock's mother was right all along, and that fairytales are possible. 

"I wish we could have kept it," Sherlock said after a moment, "as a memory of what brought us together."

In the same instant, red petal blossoms began to sprout from the top of the stem, stretching up slowly as Sherlock gasped, almost dropping the rose but clutching it tightly at the last minute. The entire rose bud began to glow, exactly like the enchanted rose, a promise of future blossom.

 _This is my final gift, a flower that will bloom as long as you both live,_ an amused female voice sounded from no-where, startling Sherlock and John, until Sherlock remembered the Enchantress and relaxed slightly, listening for the final message,  _remember beauty is always found within_. 

Sherlock gently laid the rose back in its glass case, and walked slowly back to John and the bed, suddenly feeling the almost two days without sleep. Laying down and pulling a blanket overtop of him, he snuggled into John's side for warmth; and the last moment he consciously remembers was a pair of soft lips kissing his forehead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the final scene for those of you who are not interested in Explicit content, and I hope I've wrapped up the story nicely for you. I am changing the rating to Explicit for the final chapters, because Sherlock and John deserve some physical and emotional intimacy and I want to give it to them. I'm taking requests on what you all would like Sherlock and John to do in the sex scenes, if not, I'll be left to my own imaginings, which may be dangerous :)  
> Cheers!  
> MC


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some sexually explicit content. Comments about what you'd like to see for Sherlock and John's first time is helpful! Cheers! MC

John’s eyes opened blearily and he blinked a few times, yawning and taking in the space around him. Sun shone in through the window, and John reveled in the odd sensation of warmth against his skin, the enchanted castle now full of light that permeated the very air. John took a deep breath in, and at hearing a noise to his right, he realized was that he was not alone in his bed.

Sherlock lay next to him, still wearing his ripped and bloodied clothes and breathing deeply, his face relaxed in a peaceful expression and his hands clutching a pillow to his chest, nuzzling into it. 

John’s lips turned up at the sight, and he leaned forward unthinkingly to kiss Sherlock on the forehead, breathing in his earthy, flowery smell that reminded John of his salvation. As he observed Sherlock closer, he saw a smattering of freckles over his nose, a mole marring his otherwise porcelain neck, and a swell of a little tummy where his shirt had ridden up on his otherwise lithe body. John fell in love with the small bits of proof that his love was human, the most human being he had ever witnessed, and not the genius who was without emotions, but rather the genius who felt emotions too well, who needed someone to protect his heart. 

And John was certainly up for the job. No one had changed him the way this ridiculous man had, and he stared at Sherlock lovingly for a moment longer, before turning away.

Looking down, John saw a sight he never thought he would enjoy again- his body. While his shoulder still twinged a bit when he flexed, he knew his body was in pristine shape, as it had not aged in almost eight years. He gently pulled off his torn shirt and ran a hand down and up his abdomen, reveling in the muscles there from his army days.

Looking over to Sherlock, who was still sleeping innocently, John felt a rush of daring and thrust a newly human hand down the front of his trousers, moaning quietly at the feel of his bare cock after all the years of the appendage being covered in fur.

He began to palm at his growing bulge with one hand, the other reaching up to continue stroking his stomach and nipples. John continued lazily pleasuring himself for a while, until his own desperation became too ravenous to ignore, and he bit his lips to stop the sounds from escaping, picturing Sherlock in his mind.

Sherlock’s hand wrapping around his cock as he panted into John’s ear, his hands tracing John’s nipples with dexterous precision, Sherlock impaled on his cock, squirming on it and moaning unabashedly from the sensations while beginning to rock back and forth, _back and forth_ , seeking his own pleasure.

In a moment of immeasurable desire, John came harder than he had in years, positively erupting, as he laid on his bed, in his newly reclaimed body, picturing his lovely Sherlock bouncing heatedly on his hard prick, moaning like a wanton courtesan, his naked body twisting and contorting to John’s every wish. Sherlock's high moans of pleasure in complete juxtaposition to his usual low, velvety voice as he found pleasure from John and John alone. The possessive nature of his thoughts, apparently not gone now that he was human again, caused a low growl to erupt from John as the final shocks of pleasure faded away. 

As John basked in the afterglow, but it was over all too soon when he heard the muffled sigh coming from Sherlock. John glanced over and saw Sherlock, eyes still closed and his breathing still deep, but he was rocking gently, thrusting his hips against the pillow he held.

John nearly grew hard again at the sight of his pure as the newly fallen snow, darling Sherlock having a wet dream. Perhaps his first ever, going by his crinkled forehead as if confused, even in his asleep state, of the pleasure he was currently basking in. 

 _Perhaps my moans had something to do with this?_ John pondered, a wicked smirk gracing his features as he watched Sherlock’s unconscious body take its pleasure without self-consciousness, Sherlock giving off high moans and soft sighs as his erect cock rubbed against the soft pillow, trapped inside his trousers where a wet spot was rapidly growing. John's mouth watered at the thought of slipping down the bed, tugging those loose trousers down his thighs and taking Sherlock's pride into his mouth, swallowing it whole and caused Sherlock to wake up in the midst of coming, but he held off, knowing that he needed Sherlock's approval for such an action. 

“ _Jawn,”_  the curly haired man whimpered, his plump lips forming around John’s name in such a way that John felt his chest tightened in complete adoration at this man who loved him.

The younger man came with a soft cry, his hips stilling momentarily and his head falling back slowly to reveal a pale, unmarked neck just _begging_ for John to mark and claim, lost in the unadulterated hedonistic pleasure only an unconscious man can truly achieve. 

After a moment of stillness in which John continued to peer at that adored visage, Sherlock woke with a gasp, his ever changing eyes meeting John’s and his face turning absolutely scarlet, much to John’s internal amusement. Even Sherlock’s nose was not unaffected, the small appendage turning pink, and John wanted to kiss it.

“Had a nice dream, love?” He asked teasingly, and Sherlock groaned and hid his face in the pillow he had been so lovingly stroking only moments before, overwhelmed by the afterglow of his first orgasm and mortification that John had witnessed such a juvenile and private moment. He had come in his pants, from a _dream_.

Admittedly it was a lovely dream: He and John were kissing, fighting back and forth, taking and giving, quick and hurried. Then John's hand trailed down and grasped his phallus, stroking it with precision and causing Sherlock to lose all sense.

At first, Sherlock had tried to hold back his moans, and squirm away from the sensations, but after meeting John's eyes, which were wide and adoring as he pleasured Sherlock, he decided to disregard deferred pleasure and began rocking into John's fist, John's thumb stroking the head of his sensitive member slowly. John's other hand trailed down his spine, and came to rest on his arse, squeezing and probing gently right on Sherlock's rosebud, never entering but teasing, teasing so _deliciously_ and Sherlock, caught between the two inescapable and inexorable pleasures came, the dream dissolving as the lovely pulsations faded into waking.

And then he was fully conscious, looking into John's amused eyes across from him, only to realize his foolishness. What John must think of him now, Sherlock thought deprecatingly, biting his lip where his face was all but hidden. 

John reached out slowly and began to rub Sherlock’s back in a calming manner, soothing his embarrassed emotions away, tracing his strong hands up and down Sherlock's spine and feeling a shiver at the movements, “I just had an orgasm as well, it’s alright Sherlock, wet dreams do occur,” John explained steadily, remembering his readings about the male body in his medical books, but Sherlock shook his head, sill hiding his red face from John, yet leaning into the strokes on his back. 

“Not to me, I’ve never-“ Sherlock stopped, and turned slowly to face John, “I didn’t mean to embarrass myself with you the first time we’ve shared a bed.”

John stared at Sherlock’s downtrodden expression, caused from his belief that John would be upset that he had found pleasure in his bed, even if it was only self-pleasure, and decided to take action.

After all, he was never happy when forced to be an idle man.

He flipped Sherlock onto his back, ignoring his sharp cry of “ _John!_ ” Settling on his thighs, still shirtless, John leaned down to lock Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss, much to the younger man’s surprise. John started slow, moving his lips gently, teasingly over Sherlock’s. After another moment, he began to trace his tongue alone the seam of Sherlock’s lips coaxingly, and they opened for him with a sweet gasp, encouraging John to continue pleasing his soon to be lover, soothing away his fears and anxieties with his lips. 

"Don't ever," _kiss_ , "apologize," _gasp_ , "for finding pleasure because of me," John finished, licking from Sherlock's clavicle to his chin, causing the younger man to positively writhe on the torn bedsheets, growing half-hard underneath John from his dutiful attentions. John softened his kisses, winding them both down from their pleasure high, Sherlock whining slightly as John slowed their passion to something sweeter, but John was cognizant that Sherlock would need some time, as this was all new, and John didn't want to overwhelm him. 

They kissed gently for a few more moment’s, Sherlock hesitantly began nipping at John’s thin upper lip as if practicing, and John smiled into the kiss at the sweet, untrained action, affection absolutely bursting in his chest for Sherlock.

He broke off, ignoring Sherlock’s pout, and stared at his untamed locks framing his face, his bright red lips shining from John’s attentions.

Just as John began to lower his face once more to capture Sherlock’s pliant lips with his own, a knock sounded at the door.

Sherlock groaned in annoyance, but John only grinned like a fool, feeling as if nothing could ever take away his soaring feeling- he was in love, he was human again, and he had his Rosie back. He raised Sherlock's hand, turning it gently to place a kiss on his palm to appease the disgruntled young man. 

Mrs. Hudson peaked her head in, carrying freshly laundered clothes, “morning dears! I took Rosie sometime last night, as you were both deeply asleep. But she has been up for hours now and has been asking after you both, and you have to address the staff, master,” she explained, but John was simply staring at her, taking in the sight of his beloved housekeeper, the woman who always treated him like a son, regardless of how cruel he was to her, to everyone who stayed, even after his blood relatives had long left him.

John got up, ignoring his half-naked state, and raced across the room to envelope the old woman in a hug, whispering, “none of that _‘master’_ nonsense, not from you. Not anymore,” he said, and she kissed him on the cheek, nodding her assent.

She leaned back, and took him in, looking beyond him to see Sherlock still lying in their bed, watching them both with a hesitant grin on his face, and then back to John, whose expression was truly as radiant as the sun, “are you happy, John?” She asked, the question redundant due to the obvious truth in his smile, but wanting to hear it from John’s own lips.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I’m glad to finally be home,” John said, releasing her with a final squeeze and looked mischievously at Sherlock, beginning to run towards the bed, ignoring Sherlock’s dramatic cries of, “John, don’t you dare! _Oomph_.”

John jumped on top of Sherlock, tickling his sides, a startled laugh bubbling up and out of Sherlock’s lips. As much as Sherlock tried to escape the tickling, John had him pinned down, running his hands over Sherlock’s body and causing sweet sounds of joy to fall from his lips. Mrs. Hudson watched on, tears glistening in her eyes as she observed two boys, so happy after so much sadness and loss.

But Mrs. Hudson had a surprise waiting for Sherlock, and so she had to break up the domestic moment.

“Come now, boys, you can tease one another later. Right now, you need to get dressed and see to your responsibilities,” she said in a faux-authoritative tone, a smile still evident in her voice, but the two men nodded, getting out of bed and taking their clean clothes from Mrs. Hudson.

She reached out to stroke both of their cheeks, smiling at them both fondly, before turning and closing the door with a final reminder, “ten minutes, I want to see you both in the dining room.”

John walked over to the bed, throwing his clothes down and began stripping, unbuckling his pants and shoving them down, standing in only his undergarments. Sherlock watched this with wide eyes, taking in John's strong thighs and his battle scar on his shoulder for the first time, seeing his love mainly naked was disconcerting and arousing in equal measure to the inexperienced young man, and just like with the statues, he longed to reach out and touch the golden skin. John looked up, and seeing Sherlock staring at him, seemingly frozen with his fingers twitching, and he winked teasingly.  

Sherlock picked up his clothes and walked quickly behind the privacy screen, ignoring John’s chuckles, and changed into his clothes.

 _Dammit, Mrs. Hudson,_ Sherlock thought with a frown, tugging on the riding pants that left almost nothing to the imagination and a purple silk shirt which,  when tucked in, left his arse outlined in the tight trousers, and without the covering of a coat as he had last time. Sighing, and accepting his fate, Sherlock walked out, strolling past a now fully clothed John to grab a comb, sitting down at the armoire to brush out his curls.

“You, you look amazing,” John stammered, staring at Sherlock who met his eyes in the mirror and glanced away, faking nonchalance but unable to stop the tips of his ears from heating.

“So do you,” Sherlock replied after a moment, taking in John’s figure in his fine white shirt, pants and boots, with a blue military jacket overtop, adorned with markings of his status in the army and as royalty.

As Sherlock brushed out his dark curls, he observed John; he truly looked like a prince, and Sherlock was uncomprehending in the face of his handsomeness. The beast had been a startling figure, and Sherlock had loved him and found him to be intriguing physically, but John, John was golden, and small but somehow huge, taking up space wherever he was with his demeanor, with muscles and button nose; a dichotomy of cute and fierce.

Sherlock stood up, fluffing his curls once more, and walked over to John, kissing him on the cheek, feeling bold at his presumptuous action but knowing that John loved him.

“You look very princely,” he said, and John grimaced slightly in response.

“I know, usually I prefer jumpers to be honest,” he said in complete honesty, pulling at he military jacket with discomfort. 

Sherlock giggled at the sudden picture of the beast wearing an oatmeal jumper that appeared in his mind's eye, and John joined in, until both men were laughing uproariously at the situation they now found themselves in. 

“This-this is the most _ridiculous_ thing I’ve ever done,” John giggled, thinking back to his transformation the night before.

“Yes, and you invaded the northern kingdom,” Sherlock agreed with a serious expression, fighting off another giggle and losing.

John’s laugh echoed through the ravaged bedchamber, and as Sherlock looked at him, he knew he would never love another person the way he loved this man, this beast.

“Come on Sherlock,” John said after a moment, breathing to get himself back under control but still smiling slightly, holding out his hand for Sherlock to take, and they left the bedchamber hand in hand, the glow of the newly re-born rose shining in their wake.

* * *

As the two men entered the dining room, hand in hand and smiling at one another, they looked up at a childlike cry.

"Sh'lock! Papa!" Rosie yelped, jumping down from the table and running to the two men. John lifted her up with a great swing and held her close, pulling Sherlock in as well, cuddling the two most important people in his life. Rosie then laid sloppy kisses on both of their cheeks, much to the men's amusement, before she allowed herself to be let down and resume eating her breakfast. 

Sherlock was still giggling at Rosie's display when he heard a cough from the doorway. As he turned, he saw his papa standing there, with Mycroft just behind him, both of them wearing small smiles as they watched Sherlock with his new family.

Sherlock, pausing momentarily to catalogue his brother's face when smiling, ran towards them, throwing his arms around his papa with a laugh, "Papa! You're alright," Sherlock exclaimed. He held his father close, relief flooding his body. 

"What have I taught you about stating the obvious, little brother?" Mycroft said in his usual condescending tone, but it was lacking with the warmth in his eyes as he stared at Sherlock. 

Sherlock pondered the next course of action for a moment, before shrugging to himself and hugging Mycroft closely, "I'm glad you're alright," he whispered. Mycroft was standing very still, his arms hanging at his sides in shock, but right before Sherlock almost let go in embarrassment at the obviously unwanted action, Mycroft brought his arms up to hold his little brother close, squeezing him tightly to his suit covered chest, "I'm glad you're safe, as well," he murmured, unused to expressing sentiment, but Sherlock smiled up at him brilliantly, so Mycroft figured it was worth the uncomfortable moment.

Mycroft stepped away after another moment with a huff, glancing at his father who had joyous tears in his eyes from observing his two sons. Mycroft let out an annoyed breath and mumbled, _"sentiment,"_ ignoring Sherlock's amused expression and gestured for them all to sit. As they all sat at the dining room table, they began retelling the events of the night before, basking in the light coming in from the window and the chance to start afresh. 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Smut. The whole thing, twelve pages of it. I would say I'm ashamed, but then I would be lying ;)

Later, in the library, Sherlock was browsing for books, amazed at the light illuminating the space from the sun shining outside: no more clouds to cover their days. As he searched for a book on organic chemistry, he felt a pair of warm, muscled arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back into a hard chest, a pair of lips kissing the nape of his neck, tickling his downy curls lightly.

Sherlock gave a secret smile, and allowed John to hold him as he pretended to continue to look for a book, basking in the sensations of being held and treasured.

“What’re you doing love?” John asked, clearly uninterested in the answer as he continued to kiss Sherlock neck, moving forward to lave at his ears lightly, sucking on his right earlobe and holding Sherlock by his thin hips, allowing him to feel John’s slight bulge. Sherlock sighed in response, rocking back slightly.

“Well, I _was_ looking for a chemistry text, but I am assuming you have something better in mind?” Sherlock said, turning around in John’s arms and allowing himself to be pushed back forcedly against the bookshelf, muffling a simpering moan as a thigh sliding between his parted legs, causing his desire to spiral as he stared longingly at John.

John truly was a golden prince, his hair and skin glowing in the sunlight streaming through the library windows, his short strands standing up slightly to appear as if a halo was around his head, making his smiling features even more angelic.

“I love you,” John breathed, and Sherlock ducked his head shyly at the John’s utterly sincere tone, responding in kind. John reached up one hand, tilting Sherlock’s chin up, and kissing him sweetly on the cheek. Then he cuddled in close, hugging Sherlock tightly.

Content in their embrace, Sherlock allowed himself to rest his head on top of John’s, one hand stroking up his spine and cupping at his neck, holding him close.

 _I’ll never let you go again,_ Sherlock promised inwardly, clutching John tighter.

“Sherlock,” John whispered into the quiet library after a while of holding one another, “do you want to have sex?”

Put so bluntly, a yes or no answer, Sherlock felt his nerves about the situations disperse. True, he was untried and therefore did not know what he was doing, but there was no one he wanted to discover it with than John.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, already feeling overheated in his clothes as John looked up with a grin on his face and an utterly besotted look in his eyes.

“Tonight?” John asked, practically bouncing on his toes in expectation.

Sherlock smiled at his love, leaning down to kiss his cheek. 

“Tonight,” Sherlock promised.

John left the library shortly after their exchange, going to talk to the servants about their new jobs within the palace, now that the castle had been restored to its former glory.

Sherlock sat in his leather armchair in front of the fire, and pondered sex by himself. More specifically sex with John.

Sherlock knew he wanted to surprise the man that night, because although Sherlock felt self-conscious about his lack of experience, he knew John was more…. _Dominating_.

Sherlock shivered at the thought, knowing that he was more than wiling to let John take control, even if he was slightly embarrassed to admit it. John walking into the library, grabbing him and pulling him up, always gently, gently until he shoved Sherlock down over the table in the center of the room, ripping his pants down without so much as a warning and probing at his most secret place, wetting it with the saliva on his thick fingertips, ignoring Sherlock’s cries for more….

Sherlock shook himself from his daydream, heat flushing up his cheeks as he smiled secretly. John seemed to be obsessed with Sherlock’s arse, so Sherlock decided he would acquiesce.

Yes, Sherlock thought with a little grin, his hands perched beneath his chin in a thoughtful manner, tonight Sherlock would surprise John.

* * *

 During dinner that evening, Sherlock teased John, sitting across from him and eating his food in a decidedly lewd manner, sucking on his spoon longer than necessary and exposing his collarbones, lean wrists and long neck whenever possible. John felt he was in a cruel fantasy, able to look at his mesmerizing love but unable to touch.

That is, until Sherlock mouthed, “ _tonight._ ” The word had never sounded so exquisite before, but John felt feverish at the single word, his hands clenching and unclenching around his silverware, his eyes tight with concentration on willing away his pulsing erection. 

“Papa, are you alright?” Rosie asked politely, “You’re red.”

John coughed in mortification while Sherlock and Lestrade laughed, Mrs. Hudson only clucking in response. It wasn’t John’s fault that Sherlock was so erotic without even trying, his evocative eating that night had caused John’s erection to grow beneath the table, and his arousal level grew as he imagined their bodies rocking against one another….

“I’m alright, darling, thank you for asking,” John smiled at his daughter, but met Sherlock’s eyes in the next moment, their gazes heated in excitement.

Finally, after an eternity, Mrs. Hudson said it was time to retire for the evening. Sherlock stood up and walked over to John, who was giving Rosie a kiss on the forehead and saying goodnight.

After a moment longer, they were alone in the dining room, Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind her, and the silence echoed in their wake. Sherlock and John turned to each other, sky blue meeting gray, and they found they could wait no longer. John rushed forward, pulling Sherlock down by the neck and capturing his lips in a punishing kiss, lingering slightly when he pulled away to tease the younger man after his eating performance, licking his lower lip and feeling a shock of electricity rush down his spine and into his growing erection.

Sherlock responded enchantingly, licking into John’s mouth while rolling his clothed erection against John’s and moaning as if it would satiate his hunger for more. John smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s sides and rested them on his plush arse, kneading them for a moment before teasingly running a finger down the seem, splitting Sherlock’s cheeks through his pants and prodding at his hidden entrance with an undulation of his hips at the same moment, causing Sherlock to break of their kiss with a panted shout, “ _John!_ ”

“What is it love?” He responded innocently, leaning down to lave over his collarbones, holding Sherlock close as he tried to twist away from the roaming finger against his most secret place which was pushing gently past his muscle now, the thin riding pants doing nothing to deter John’s lust for Sherlock.

John picked him up with no warning, laughing into Sherlock’s mouth at his surprised gasp, and continued teasing at his little hole with his fingers, Sherlock unable to do anything but tilt his head back and take the sensations as John held him, clenching his ivory thighs around John’s sides as pleasure raced through his pure body.

“John, stop,” Sherlock moaned after a moment, and John broke away from him, setting him down slowly and breathing heavily. He watched as Sherlock leaned against the dining room table, catching his breathe and smoothing down his recalcitrant curls. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his heated look melting into something more languid, his eyes half closing in pleasure and happiness.

“I want to do this properly, take me to bed.”

And John, never one to argue with such a request, nodded and took Sherlock’s clammy hand into his own, leading him out of the dining room and back to their space.

* * *

Once they arrived at the bedchamber, John opened the door with a flourish, allowing Sherlock to enter.

He gasped, taking in the sight of the room around them.

Candles lit the room in a soft glow, making it all the more romantic, much to Sherlock’s inner happiness. The bedposts had been replaced and new bedclothes covered the large bed in the center of the room with large pillows adorning it, and Sherlock wanted to do nothing but relax back into the sinfully soft looking bed, but blushing slightly, remembering how they were planning on soiling that bed in the near future... 

The rest of the room had been cleaned as well, the paintings removed and a fresh smell surrounding the space from the candles and clean rugs and bedding.

“It’s amazing,” Sherlock whispered, and John walked forward to stand beside him, taking his hand and kissing it like the prince he was, bowing slightly with a gleam of mischief in his blue eyes.

“I’m glad you like it sweetheart, I wanted to take you to bed properly,” John said, his voice deepening with meaning, and Sherlock’s ivory cheeks inflamed.

“I just, need to change,” Sherlock breathed, walking to stand behind the privacy screen.

John started to undress for a moment, but decided to wait, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning the top few buttons on his white shirt, taking off his boots and lounging back onto the bed, pleased that the servants had been able to fix the room so quickly.

John watched Sherlock shadow behind the screen unbutton his shirt in a demure fashion, and he smirked, laying back and watching the slightly obscured strip show with his erection laying high against his black trousers in anticipation for his innocent Sherlock. John palmed slightly at his erection, biting his lip to keep from actually stroking his manhood.

John watched in confusion as Sherlock leaned down to put something _on_. Huh.

“John, I-I don’t know if you’ll like it,” Sherlock called embarrassedly from behind the privacy screen, and John watched his lean silhouette flickering in the candlelight, just enough to tease, and licked his lips hungrily, thinking of the exposed skin hiding just beyond the screen. But John was a patient man, and he knew that he had to soothe his young, inexperienced lover.

“ _Shh,_ you’re perfect love. Whatever you’ve planned, I am sure it is wonderful. Come out here to me,” John coaxed, and watched with complete amazement as Sherlock tiptoed out nervously, his face flaming. But he wasn’t naked, no.

He was wearing a pair of green silk panties.

He was wearing women’s underwear that formed to his half-hard cock gloriously, John’s mouth watered at the erotic sight of Sherlock- standing there self-consciously, but looking like a Greek god with his lithe form, light muscled and alabaster, unmarked skin that spoke to his youth.

The panties extenuated how vulnerable to young man was, and also how susceptible to advances. Sherlock turned to the side in embarrassment, trying to cover himself and staring into a candle adamantly as if he could disappear if he tried, but John was struck momentarily speechless at the sight of his naked arse, outlined beautifully by the panty’s revealing cut, a piece of green silk separating Sherlock's cheeks, rubbing up against his hole, begging to be taken, plundered, _owned_ , oh. 

John approached slowly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he observed his demure lover, _reeling_ at the thought of Sherlock finding these panties and wearing them, for John. He never wanted Sherlock to take them off. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back, pulling him back into his arms and smiling delightedly as he watched his lower cheeks jiggle at the movement.

“Sherlock, you do know what sort of people who wear those sorts of panties want don't you,” John teased, nipping and licking up and down Sherlock’s neck as he ground his growing erection against that plush, oh so _plush_ arse.

“No- _ohh_ ,” Sherlock gasped, and John smirked wickedly, leaning in to whisper while nibbling on his ear.

“They wear them to _make love_.” John whispered, trailed one hand down to stroke at Sherlock’s arse, spanking one cheek lightly while he nipped at Sherlock’s neck in warning, "these panties are very reveling, they're _delicious_ , I love them. I love you." 

Sherlock gasped, moaning out John’s name and shuttering in his arms, and as John leaned forward in confusion, he realized Sherlock had come, a wet stain forming on the front of those decidedly naughty undergarments. Sherlock had _come_. His overstimulation and lack of experience causing the virginal young man to positively lose control.

In his panties.

From no other stimulation than John talking, and a _spank_ against his naughty arse.

“J-John I’m _so_ sorry,” Sherlock apologized frantically, turning around to face John with his embarrassment deepening, making him look absolutely disheveled in the wake of his release, with pink cheeks and cum soaked panties, “I didn’t mean to-“

“That,” John growled, backing Sherlock up to the edge of the bed until he fell back with a startled grunt, and John leaned over him predatorily, “that was the single most erotic thing I have ever seen. I want to consume you.”

John was intoxicated by Sherlock, and he wanted to utterly ravish him until he could no longer form the letters to his own name. _He will be mine,_ John thought, his breathing ragged from overwhelming desire to claim Sherlock _now_.

Sherlock gulped, and being the loving, adorable, naïve boy that he is, nodded his head in agreement, splayed back on the bed with his legs wide and his panties filled with his own essence: “Whatever you want John, just show me what to do.”

And John, well, John almost came at _that_ little remark.

 _Oh the possibilities with a willing virgin in love,_ John thought, his arousal growing.

John torn off his clothes with a growl, noting that Sherlock seemed unable to look away from his sizable cock once it was unclothed, and he tilted sherlock's chin up from his member, "Like what you see, love?" He teased, kissing lightly at his lips, lingering and making Sherlock crave his lips more, licking licking at his bottom lip in teasing torment. 

"John," Sherlock panted, his eyes half closed in hazy pleasure, "kiss me."

John smirked at the request. _Very well._  

John flipped Sherlock over, nudging him up the bed and leaning back to look at his naked back, his arse framed by green silk, hiding Sherlock’s pink rosebud from his gaze.

Growling at the thought of being denied sight of his lover, he tilted his hips up, ignoring his gasp of, “ _John, what’re you doing?_ ” Smirking wickedly as he lowered his mouth, pulling the thin silk string away from Sherlock’s opening and breathing on the vulnerable hole, reveling in Sherlock’s helpless gasp and captivated in watching the entrance pulse and clench in nervousness. He lowered his head, kissing the hole briefly, so sweetly, before beginning to ravish the rosebud with affection, locking his lips around it and humming in pleasure, holding Sherlock’s hips up and smiling at his unending moans of pleasure mixed with absolute shock, his face heating at his own enjoyment of the unspeakably dirty act. 

“John, that's-“ John sucked around the rim, darting his tongue in once, twice, fucking Sherlock’s hips in time with his thrusts. Sherlock tasted heavenly, like his lavender soap and something decidedly Sherlockian. John leaned back, feeling hopelessly breathless as he viewed the pink entrance clenching around nothing, opening slightly under John’s ministrations, just _begging_ to be taken. John looked down and saw Sherlock's cock becoming erect rapidly, and he mouthed at his tight balls momentarily, basking in Sherlock's overstimulated cries for more, while his body tried to squirm away. 

“What is it, love?” John asked, smirking against the hole and pecking it lightly, allowing saliva to build in his mouth before breaching the rosebud once more with his wriggling tongue, "you asked for a kiss," he murmured against the hole, causing vibrations to race up Sherlock's spine as John continued to kiss and lick just inside Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s vulnerable hole being plundered by his mouth was causing his primitive urges to rise, but he held them off, knowing he had to be gentle for his love, sucking rhythmically at the rim and ignoring Sherlock’s begging cries for more.

“J-John, please, _please_ , oh, _ohhhh_ ,” Sherlock cried as he tried to lower his hips to the bed to receive some friction against his aching member, but John held his hips fast, keeping his arse in the air for John’s gaze and his own private pleasure, leaning back quickly to tear the green panties from his body, mourning their loss for a moment before focusing on his young lover's body once more. 

Finally, when John’s cock was full to bursting from Sherlock’s ceaseless squirming and moans, he sat back, sitting with his back against the headboard and pulling Sherlock’s lower half over him lap, tapping at his slightly pink bum teasingly and ignoring Sherlock’s cry of indignation, parting those plump cheeks to gaze at the sweet, glistening hole hiding just within. He reached over to the bedside table and pulled out some slick he had left there earlier in anticipation. 

“ _Shh,_ love, I have to get you ready for me,” John placated, and without warning, thrust his index finger into Sherlock’s wet opening, tilting his fingers to rub against his sweet spot in the next moment and causing Sherlock to shout out in pleasure, his pretty face absolutely scarlet from mortification at his most private place being so on display and invaded as well as desire, for John to take his innocence.

After a few more minutes, and a few more wicked fingers, Sherlock was practically hyperventilating, his thoughts swarmed with only the thought of John, and he surrendered to the pleasure, going pliant in John’s lap as he prepared him, knowing that he did not want to hide, even this, from John.

John, at seeing Sherlock’s submissive action of acceptance, could wait no longer to plunge himself inside his beloved, the pulses from his purpling member becoming to much to bear.

He picked Sherlock up, smirking slightly at Sherlock’s confused hum when he is moved, and holds him above his cock facing John, letting go of his hips slightly and guiding him down, down, _down_.

John breached his untried hole, and Sherlock was bombarded with sensation as he greedily rocked his hips down, ignoring the slight flair of pain in favor of the gush of pleasure throughout his lean body, his cock hardening further as he breathlessly allowed John to enter him, gravity working him down onto John's cock, as if John was some sort of sinful chair for Sherlock to sit on, and Sherlock's mind unhelpfully suggested that Sherlock never sit anywhere else if this was the feeling that John reaped from his untried body everytime. 

John held his hips, guiding him down until his arse was plush with John’s hips, and Sherlock gave an untested roll to catalogue the sensations. They both moaned, from the extended foreplay and the repressed months of sexual desire, on both of their parts, they recognized this would not last long.

Not with Sherlock clenching John’s cock in a vice grip and Sherlock’s arse quivering in a wanton manner. Sherlock braced his hands of John's heaving abdomen, slowly inching up and down. 

“Sherlock,” John murmured through clenched teeth, trying to regain control, “stop moving for a moment.”

But Sherlock, with an impish grin, squirmed on John’s cock, moaning loudly to the ceiling, and John’s control broke, holding Sherlock’s hips and ramming up into him, incited by Sherlock’s teasing. They rocked together feverishly for perhaps a few minutes, until John reached up to tug at Sherlock's sensitive nipples, causing Sherlock to erupt, his cock pulsating untouched onto his and John’s stomachs as John leaned forward to kiss Sherlock through his orgasm, swallowing his cries of unreserved delight.

_John, oh._

Halfway through Sherlock’s release, John began to climax, panting out Sherlock’s name and twisting their hands together, watching with greedy eyes and Sherlock leaned down to slip his nipple into his mouth, sucking on it and causing John to release one more wave of pleasure between their bodies.

_Sherlock, yes._

In the aftermath, in the wake of swirling half-consciousness, Sherlock laid on John’s stomach, with John stroking up and down his back as they tangled their legs together, basking in the glow and endorphins from their intense joining. After a moment John gently rolled Sherlock over, ignoring his grunt of dissatisfaction, and cleaned off their stomachs with a rag, leaning down to mop lightly at Sherlock's leaking hole and ignoring his brilliant blush and kicking feet.

Laying down next to Sherlock after a moment and entwining their fingers once more, he waited for his love to say something, hoping that Sherlock's first time wasn't too overwhelming. John felt overwhelmed, he had never had such passionate intercourse, but then again, Sherlock always was special. 

“So,” Sherlock said, still breathing hard, with a bright grin gracing his sweet features, the color still high on his cheeks, “I finally found something I love more than reading.”

John looked over with a self-satisfied smile, his eyes gleaming with unparalleled affection for his genius,“yes, I thought you might have.”

* * *

 

 John sat in his armchair in the library, trying to read and failing, thinking back to his first night with Sherlock. It had been, in a word, fantastic. John marveled at the trust Sherlock was placing in him, and just _remembering_ the green panties made him smolder. As well as the unparalleled feeling of entering Sherlock, his greedy arse ready and willing for John’s cock from the first penetration…

It had been two glorious, heated weeks since their first night, and everything was finally settled. Molly was tutoring Rosie once again; Lestrade was Captain of the guards, protecting the palace walls. John was reintroduced to royal court in London, and was now involved in trade deals for the kingdom involving his lands that stretch over 500 acres. Mrs. Hudson was back to managing the house and the staff, and Sherlock’s brother Mycroft was in charge of royal legal documents, living now within the castle’s walls with Sherlock’s papa, much to Sherlock’s endless amusement and happiness.

Despite how wonderfully everyone was getting on, John could not seem to rid Sherlock of his low self-esteem; his constant worry that he would somehow annoy or displease John in some way causing John heartache at how wrong he was.

John knew that Sherlock needed to grow in his view of himself, and his self worth, and wondered how to make such a feeling come about. Perhaps he should get him a book about esteem? No, he would dismiss it for his science texts. Art was an option, John shivered as he remembered Sherlock’s display in the gallery room oh so long ago now, remembering his uncontrollable need to _have_ Sherlock in that moment.

But no, Sherlock wouldn’t see his body as worthy next to a painting or a sculpture. But how does someone prove something to a genius?

Then John thought of Sherlock, and what he was receptive too. Sherlock was receptive to him, so if John encouraged Sherlock to see the good in himself, he would be encouraged to do so. But how to get Sherlock in a position where he couldn’t deflect or refuse? Hmm…. _Oh_.

And that was how; sitting in the library, John came up with a truly _wicked_ plan.

In the next instant, as if led by fate, Sherlock walked in, calling his name. Seeing the dangerous smile on John’s face, he began to walk slowly backwards, a nervous look in his eyes, but John would have none of it. He walked slowly forward, holding his hand out to Sherlock with a sinful invitation gleaming in his eyes, and Sherlock was powerless to take his hand.

And that was how Sherlock became, quite literally, trapped on John’s hard cock, sitting naked in his lap with John’s large hands holding his hips down with a punishing force, _fucking_ him in his armchair, their skin overheating due to the proximity of the fire.

“John, someone could walk in, this isn’t decent- _Ah!_ ” Sherlock was moaning his denials as the cruel man beneath him smirked and rolled his hips in a fashion that sent sparks up Sherlock’s spine, but refusing to allow him to move an inch, holding Sherlock’s hips in a vice grip and not allowing him pleasure himself on John’s cock.

He was practically delirious with denied pleasure.

“W-Why are you d-doing- _oh_ \- this?” Sherlock begged, as John continued to sweep past his sweet spot with wicked precision, his eyes dark and knowing and staring at Sherlock.

“Because, Sherlock, we’re going to stay like this until you admit how beautiful and wonderful you are, and mean it,” John said nonchalantly, far too much in control for someone buried inside someone else, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance at John’s unnecessary request.

John thrust up once, quickly, in punishment, and Sherlock’s thighs were positively shaking from overstimulation, his entire body glistening with sweat, and John’s smirked at the sight of Sherlock being claimed as _his_ , yet again.

As he glanced down, he saw Sherlock’s rosy, puckered opening stretched around his hard cock, and decided to claim Sherlock as often as he allowed in the future to keep the hole stretched and open for his provocative use.

“John please-“ Sherlock whimpered, feeling unaccountably shy at being stripped away to his most vulnerable with John inside of him, controlling his pleasure and now, asking Sherlock to open his heart.

“No sweetheart,” John whispered, bringing their linked hands up for him to kiss Sherlock’s own, “tell me what I want to hear like a _good boy_ , and you can come.”

At the phrase _‘good boy’_ , Sherlock lost all sense, his lithe body fighting half-heartedly to escape John, trying to remove his hands from John’s grip and clenching around the pulsing heat splitting him in two. John’s eyes flashed frantically, letting out a guttural moan and allowing Sherlock to feel triumphant as he viewed John’s momentary lack of control.

It didn’t last long though, as John held Sherlock down with his muscled arms, keeping him flush in his lap, nipping at his neck and moving their twined hands to Sherlock’s body, holding his hips utterly still and still buried in Sherlock. He released one hand to hit Sherlock's arse with a sharp _smack_ , and Sherlock's head tilted backwards in agonizing pleasure, his pink arse clenching around an insurmountable member inside. Sherlock went pliant above him, feeling vulnerable and yet more determined than ever before, he wanted to come, so badly.

Sherlock was leaking profusely against his own stomach, and begging incessantly, saying _John, John, John,_ over and over, to no avail.

John leaned up and met his eyes, smiling an expression that was too sweet for someone who was currently buried in another human being to be wearing, his sincerely loving expression warring with the molten heat reflected in his midnight eyes.

“You know what I want, love, let me hear it,” he said with a sly smile and a languorous roll of his hips.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, moaning the next moment when John thrust up harshly in delicious punishment.

Sherlock’s large hands clawed at the armrests as he tried to control his pleasure, failing fantastically. The throbbing of his arse around John’s cock causing him heart palpitations, his skin positively dripping with sweat as he wriggled around on his possessive lover’s erect member, feeling helpless to escape the sensations as he was held down.

In desperation, he leaned down to steal a kiss, deepening it with his tongue the way John taught him and hoping it would be enough to push John into action, but the disciplined Captain held firm, pulling his mouth away with one more peck, and spanking Sherlock’s arse in warning once again, causing the slender boy to pant as he clenched around John rhythmically as John watched with a besotted expression. John filed the information of Sherlock's delightful reactions to spanking for use another day...

“I am beautiful,” Sherlock panted out, and John lifted their joined hands up and swept a sweaty curl from his forehead, “I am kind, and intelligent, I can deduce-“

John cut him off with a soft nip to his ear in warning, “not your brain, although it is dizzyingly distracting in its own right, no Sherlock, I want to hear about the qualities you don’t admit are there,” he punctuated by lying down and rubbing his abs against Sherlock hard, leaking cock, causing a gasp to break free, “the qualities are obvious for anyone who knows and loves you,” John coaxed, and Sherlock nodded breathlessly.

“Yes John, I am beautiful, I am kind, and I saved you,” he said, looking away from John, but John unlaced their fingers and brought one hand up, tilting Sherlock’s chin to look at him, Sherlock’s eyes hazy with pleasure but echoing the same sweetness John knew he was reflecting.

“You have saved me, so many times and in so many ways,” John admitted, his sweet words seeping into Sherlock’s sex-addled brain, and he smiled, his rosy cheeks deepening in color from John’s unguarded confession.

“You’ve saved me too John, I owe you so much,” Sherlock promised, feeling somehow more exposed and glad for it, leaning forward to suck on a sensitive spot on John’s neck, just below his ear, and heard a choked off groan.

“You’re my beauty,” John choked out, gliding in and out of Sherlock faster and deeper now, and Sherlock met John’s eyes, putting his hands on John’s shoulders to ride him faster, engulf him deeper, and nodded in response, “I’m yours, John.”

The two men came with a wave of release, crying out each other's names in the expansive library, their release calming their arousals. Overcome by the sensations, Sherlock sagged into John’ arms, nuzzling into his neck and allowing him to cradle Sherlock gently, leaving them whispering sweet nothings to one another while curled up in the library.

The sunlight shown in through the windows on the two men curled up together as they dozed in John’s chair, and as they relaxed, Sherlock began humming a beautiful tune, oddly reminiscent.

“What are you singing, love?” John asked, trying to pin where he had heard the beautiful melody.

Sherlock only smiled, turning his head to hide his face beneath John’s smooth chin, and whispered against his neck, “it’s our song. Beauty and the beast.”

John nodded, and held Sherlock closer, marveling in the beauty that he was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm certainly blushing after writing this.... Only the epilogue is left! Thanks for reading along, kudos/comments are appreciated, as always.


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, everyone! Thank you for reading along, and all those who commented of left kudos, I hope you know how much I appreciated it. It's been difficult after Season 4 of Sherlock, so I hope this could lift some of your spirits <3  
> Cheers!  
> MC

  _One Month Later…._

 

John and Sherlock stood dressed in their finery, John is his military dress with his badges of honor shining on his jacket and Sherlock with his curls slightly tamed for the occasion, his riding boots shining. Around them, their few family and friends were sitting in chairs and watching with smiles abounding as the two men made their promises to one another, their vows.

“I, Sherlock, take you John, to be my lawfully wedded husband,” Sherlock’s voice quavered, and he blinked his eyes rapidly to get his emotions under control, but found he was lost in the light blue eyes glistening back at him.

“I, John, take you Sherlock, to be my lawfully wedded husband,” John spoke confidently, squeezing Sherlock’s hands where they were intertwined between them, both men laughing when they heard Rosie ask in a child’s whisper how much longer until they could have cake. Giving themselves a moment to get their overwhelming emotions under control, the two men then took a breath in unison.

“I promise to love, honor, and cherish you always, and may life and death never part us,” both men repeated to one another in the same moment, their voices melding together, and Lestrade gave them both a smile from where he stood beside them, officiating.

The ballroom was brilliantly lit with the summer sun streaming in through the windows and the entire room was covered in roses, with their enchanted rose sitting on a platform between the two soon to be husbands, declaring their love story for all to witness. Sherlock and John’s eyes never parted, two pairs of blue eyes, so different from one another, both shining in the morning light as they were married in front of their family and friends.

“It is my great honor to declare you married, under God and this great nation, you may kiss each other,” Lestrade declared, his voice booming with pride, and their few guests erupted with applause. John tilted his head up, moving his hand to stroke through Sherlock’s curls as he captured Sherlock’s pliant lips in his own, moving them gently against one another a handful of times before they pulled away, resting their foreheads against one another and smiling.

 _My happy ending_ , Sherlock thought to himself, blinking away the stinging sensation in his eyes in favor of looking at John. The two men only broke their gazes when Rosie wrapped her tiny arms around their legs, and began tugging to get their attention.

“Papa! Sh’lock! Cake now?” She demanded, and Sherlock picked her up with a laugh, allowing her to wrap her legs around his waist as he carried her, holding John’s hand tightly as they walked back down the aisle from whence they came.

 

* * *

 

They mingled for a while with their guests, holding hand or brushing against one another as they received well wishes from their family and friends, Sherlock’s Papa and Mrs. Hudson were crying lightly as they greeted the boys with tearful hugs.

“It seems like only yesterday Sherlock was splashing around in the bathtub with his favorite stuffed honeybee, crying out for his mama and I to play with him,” Sherlock’s Papa said mournfully, ignoring the indignant _“Papa!”_ exclaimed from a now furiously red Sherlock, who was avoiding John’s gaze. John let out a delighted laugh, and leaned up to stroke Sherlock’s cheek in a placating manner, imagining how cute Sherlock would have looked as a mere child, little curls and a honeybee following him around on his adventures.

“I know,” Mrs. Hudson agreed mournfully, and John cringed as she continued, “John used to be utterly obsessed with running around the castle completely naked, his naked bum and bits on display, interrupting formal dinners and the like. He was such an adorable, mischievous child,” she laughed as she watched John’s face flush up to his ears, matching his beloved’s horrified expression.

Shortly after that incident, John and Sherlock left their giggling parental figures who were still sharing embarrassing stories about their childhoods, their faces just beginning to fade from the lingering mortification.

After a few more minutes of socializing, John grabbed Sherlock around the waist in a playful manner, “Sherlock,” John laughed his name, spinning him around, delighting in Sherlock’s surprised expression at his manhandling and pulling him away from their guests, “come on, dance with me.”

Sherlock broke away from John’s ridiculous spinning with a laugh, nodding and trying to get his recalcitrant giggles under control at his husband’s idiocy.

Their song began to play as they stepped onto the dance floor, and the two men glanced over to see Mrs. Hudson instructing the band to begin playing their song.

As the sweet, slightly mournful beginning notes began to play, Sherlock stepped into John’s arms, allowing him to take the lead with a mock-annoyed eye roll, his face split in a gorgeous grin that took John’s breath away.

They spun around the ballroom, the two men appearing to the entire world as the royalty they were, the sun shining down on them and the magical rose sparkling in the corner of the room, a brilliant display of their fortitude and love for one another, their smiles lighting up the once enchanted castle until it seemed to glow in an ethereal manner.

Finally, after dancing until their feet were sore, just after the sun had gone down on the beautiful day, John and Sherlock said goodnight to their guests, and left the party while the music was still playing, John leading Sherlock to their bedchambers to celebrate their wedding night.

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock walked into their bedchamber, taking a deep breath, and turning around to look at John for the first time since they began their ascent up to their bedroom.

John was looking at him oddly. There was still the usual hunger in his eyes, and Sherlock’s cheeks turned slightly rosy and the remembrance of all the sexual acts they had engaged in since they had been together for the past month, but now there was a sentimentality lingering over his features, something vulnerable in a way that his strong John rarely ever was.

Sherlock gasped when John strode forward, picking him up in a swift move and carrying him over to their bed, laying him down gently, _so gently_ , and beginning to kiss his lips, which were slightly open in surprise from the romantic gesture, with their clothes still on. Soft pecking kisses; they were slightly wet and slow as if it were their first time once again.

Sherlock looked up and saw John’s eyes smiling down at him, their sky blue appearance shining in the darkness of their bedchambers, with only a few candles and the moonlight shining in the window to illuminate the space, so only their eyes were fully visible to one another.

John kissed down Sherlock’s abdomen, pulling down Sherlock’s tightening trousers just enough to swallow down the head of his manhood, suckling lightly at the head and the drop of pre-come that were gathering there as Sherlock gasped and clawed at the sheets to keep from thrusting up into the inviting warmth of John’s mouth.

Said man looked up with a half-hearted smirk, licking his lips momentarily, before reaching up and beginning to undo Sherlock’s shirt buttons one by one, popping them from their holes in a dedicated manner, his eyes never leaving his task and allowing Sherlock to study his new husband’s face. John seemed to be avoiding his eyes, how odd? And he was less demanding than usual, slower, almost more passive...

With a startling realization, Sherlock’s eyes widened. He knew what John needed, his vulnerability and need to be taken care of clear in the tentativeness of his usual dominating personality.

Sherlock smiled to himself at his sweet husband, so strong and yet so unable to admit when he needed to be taken care of, _well, we’re just going to have to fix that, won’t we?_

With a swift move, Sherlock flipped them over so John was beneath him. Sherlock flushed at the memories of John beneath him which usually involved him writhing on top of his prick and moaning loudly, but tonight, tonight was going to be different. They had never tried this way, but Sherlock was confident that it was what John secretly wanted tonight, but it was also something a man such as John would never ask for.

“ _Shhh_ , my love,” Sherlock murmured, reaching down to kiss John’s collarbone and neck and reveling in the gasp he heard when he began to suck as he deftly undid John’s shirt, “let me.”

John’s entire body suddenly tensed up as he realized what Sherlock was doing, but the younger man would not be dissuaded by his course of action, untucking John’s shirt and sliding it off of his golden skin, until his chest was bare. Leaning down and capturing a nipple in his mouth, Sherlock smiled around the tender pink flesh when he heard John’s light moan that he cut off, biting his lip when Sherlock glanced up.

Continue to ravish his attentions on John’s nipples, he trailed his hands down to unbuckle his pants, stopping for a moment to slide off John’s pants and boots, leaving him bare beneath the fully clothed Sherlock.

John leaned up, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s head and beginning to kiss him more roughly, fighting for dominance of the moment, but Sherlock slowed the kisses, nipping at John’s lower lip in punishment when he tried to rush through.

“Slowly, gently,” Sherlock whispered against John’s reddened lips, and he paused, a guarded look still in his eyes, but he nodded. Sherlock pushed him gently back down, following his path with his lithe body until he was laying on top of John, chest to chest, controlling their kisses as John slowly gave up his rigidly held control.

Sherlock sat up after another moment, taking off his shirt and wriggling out of his pants, ignoring John’s laugh at his ridiculous movements to escape the tight riding pants Mrs. Hudson insisted he wear. Sherlock gave a mock growl, his cheeks blushing as he watched John peruse his naked flesh lazily, his member a deep red and leaking with interest.

He pounced back on top of John once he was unclothed, used to his nudity around John now but still somewhat self conscious, and began to suck at the spot beneath John’s ear that never ceased to make him groan.

“ _Ahhh,_ Sherlock!”

 _Perfect,_ Sherlock thought with a smirk, trailing teasing kisses down John chest until he came to lay between John’s knees. With a smile up at his husband, he spread John’s knees wide, giving himself access to everything between John’s muscular legs.

John, usually not body conscious, felt oddly exposed lying there, allowing Sherlock to take control and look at him, his eyes always expressing his complete adoration that John was not sure he deserved after all his sins.

Sherlock stroked up and down John’s thighs, giving a small squeeze of encouragement, before gently grabbing John’s cock and swallowing it down, using the skills he had gained over their month together to drive John absolutely wild. Suck, lick at the head, trail kisses down the side, and listen for John’s moans.

“Sherlock- _god yes_ \- you were made to do this-“ John panted out, stroking Sherlock’s curls and being careful not to tug too hard. Sherlock smiled at John’s poetry, secretly enjoying his attempt to verbalize his pleasure, and decided it was time to take it one step further. Trailing kisses back up to John’s face, he kissed John’s lips a few times to distract him as Sherlock reached over and grabbed the slick from the bedside table.

Settling back down between John’s legs after a moment more, and enjoying John’s rosy cheeks and glistening skin for a moment more, he began teasing John’s cock once more, this time uncorking the slick and pouring it on his fingers while John was busy expressing his rapture.

Sherlock, feeling bold, took his index finger and ran it up and down John’s soft skin just pass his perineum, watching as John gasped but did not tell him to stop. Continuing to kiss John’s cock, Sherlock also found his rosebud and began pressing lightly, never penetrating, but creating a rhythm of pulsations that began to drive John wild.

“Sher- Sherlock _please_ ,” John begged, writhing on the sheets and trying to escape the insurmountable pleasure, but Sherlock was unyielding in his torment, beginning to press a finger inside of John, immediately finding his sweet spot and stroking over it with precision.

“ _Ohhhh_ ,” John moaned out, never having felt such sensations, and as Sherlock let go of John’s member with a succulent – _pop-_ he watched his lover selfishly take his pleasure for once. He was always lavishing attention on Sherlock, and now the younger man wanted to return the favor.

Sherlock wished to allow John to feel as wholly and completely known as Sherlock did when John showered him with his affections.

When he penetrated him. Laid him bare. Exposed him for what he truly was, at him most vulnerable. A man in love. And now, Sherlock would give that to John.

Sherlock watched John carefully for any pain as he pushed another long, dexterous finger into John’s opening, grinning when he saw John’s eyelids flutter in pleasure, a different pleasure from penetrating someone.

Allowing someone to come _inside_ of you, well, that was an entirely new experience. And John seemed to be reveling in it, his hands tangled in the sheets, his legs splayed wide and trembling lightly in pleasure and Sherlock began to scissor his fingers, working John open. As Sherlock leaned down to watch his fingers disappearing inside of his husband, he was struck by the fact that John; noble, war-hardened, masculine John was allowing Sherlock to see him like this, completely lost to his pleasure. Completely trusting.

Once he determined his love was ready, he leaned up and captured John’s trembling lips with his own, kissing John for a moment before John tentatively began to kiss back.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, lining himself up, and John shakily nodded, reaching a hand up to gently push Sherlock’s curls from his forehead.

“ _Ohhh_ John,” Sherlock sighed as he entered his love slowly, the color high on his cheeks as John clenched around him, getting used to the new sensation.

Once he was fully seated within his husband, Sherlock looked down to see John’s head to turned to the side, trying to hide from him. Sherlock reached a hand up, grabbing under his chin and moving John’s head softly to face him.

Sherlock saw tears glistening in John’s eyes, but he knew John wasn’t in pain he was just overwhelmed. He leaned down to kiss the shorter man’s forehead, resting there and giving him a moment, knowing how vulnerable this act can make any man.

After a few more moments of them lying there, breathing on another in, John nodded for him to start moving with a shaky gasp, and Sherlock began to rock slowly, teasingly in and out, barely moving for a moment to allow John to become accustom to the manhood splitting him open.

“S-Sherlock, _ahhh_ ,” John cried out, clawing at his back as if to control his movements, but Sherlock was steadily pushing in and out, _in and out_ , rocking forward until his sharp hips met John’s soft backside and then again.

While John was slightly larger, Sherlock’s cock was a perfectly normal size, and John gasped and shuddered at the feeling of something of that girth inside of him, rubbing against his sweet spot on every stroke without fail, and causing pulsations to rush up his spine, slithering through his abdomen, and causing white stars to appear in his eyes.

“ _Please,_ faster, harder!” John demanded, but Sherlock shook his head with a smile, despite his desperate need to bury himself in John’s wet heat and never leave, he knew that John needed this, to truly let go.

To be made love too.

John saw the tenderness in Sherlock’s changeable eyes, and he tried to fight back the tears that had already been stinging his eyes, but found he was unable too when Sherlock was opening him up, entering him in a way he never had been before.

He felt splayed open and seen all at once.

“Sherlock, _don’t_ ,” John pleaded, but Sherlock shook his head, leaning down to capture John’s trembling lips with his own, separating John’s lips with his tongue and stroking inside his mouth gently, matching his tongue’s movements with that of his manhood, slowly, surely.

Leaning down to John’s ear, Sherlock whispered, “you’re always so strong, let go John. _My_ John.”

John cried out, tears beginning to stream down from his eyes, his mouth wordlessly mouthing, _“I love you,”_ to Sherlock repeatedly, his chest heaving as his breathing became labored. Sherlock wiped the tears away for a moment, before leaning down to kiss the salty wetness away, savoring the feeling of his lover finally, after all his years alone as a beast, allowing himself to be vulnerable.

“Sherlock, I love you, _please_.”

John cried gently, hiccuping slightly, as Sherlock continued to rock in and out of him steadily, slowly, reaching down a hand to grasp John’s leaking manhood lying against his abdomen, teasing at the sensitive head with his thumb and he stroked up and down. After a moment more, insurmountable bliss overcame the two men quite unexpectedly, their orgasms beginning in tandem as they breathed out their cries into each other’s mouths, the gentle waves causing their pleasure to extend out with John clenching around Sherlock tightly and Sherlock lightly stroking John’s cock.

They leaned their foreheads together once the sensations had finished, and whispered sweet nothings to one another, wiping each other off between kisses and declarations, before falling into a blissful slumber.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up the next day with a strong arm wrapped around his chest, pushing him into John's sleep-addled body.

He smiled and snuggled closer, closing his eyes and basking in the dim morning light and the feelings of being completely and utterly safe in John’s arms.

“Good morning, love,” John snuffled behind him, his voice gravel with disuse, stroking one hand up and down Sherlock’s naked side, causing the flesh to break out in goose bumps at the slightly ticklish sensation.

Sherlock marveled at the feeling of complete closeness, skin to skin without clothes acting as barriers between them, and yet there was nothing sexual about that moment, and yet, somehow, it was the most vulnerable he had ever felt. Being touched without any intent, just because John wanted him close, proved to the last guarded part of Sherlock’s heart that this love was one meant to last, and his last wall fell away with a crumble, Sherlock’s lips beginning to tremble.

Remembering how John was last night, so exposed and vulnerable, trusting Sherlock in that way, it was beautiful.

This was the kind of love people searched for, knowingly or not, sometimes their whole lives long. And Sherlock had stumbled upon it, almost destroyed it, practically lost John to the curse, and yet…

Sherlock turned over, ignoring John’s huff as his arms briefly fell away from Sherlock’s body, until he was nose to nose with John, staring into his cerulean eyes that were practically overflowing with happiness, his cheeks rosy from warm sleep. Sherlock leaned in to kiss John’s nose, which crinkled slightly at Sherlock’s surprise intentions.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock murmured, letting his lips linger tantalizingly over John’s for a moment before descending, brushing their lips together once, twice, before leaning in a capturing his mouth in a deeper kiss still, his head foggy from the deep rest and quiet bedchambers surrounding the two men in complete privacy and bliss.

John sighed happily into Sherlock’s mouth, “I can’t live without you, ever again,” he murmured against his lips. Sherlock choked off a sob, his heart overflowing, feeling tears welling up in his eyes and trying to blink them away, a few escaping and trailing down his flushed face.

John reached forward to wipe them away with a private smile, pecking Sherlock’s forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, before leaning back, gazing into Sherlock’s glistening eyes with complete adoration.

“Don’t cry love, we've done enough of that,” John said with a slightly choked voice, watching his love cry in happiness, relief, and a love that seemed at times unattainable had caused his emotions to swell within the confines of his bed with his beloved in his arms.

John leaned forward slowly, nuzzling their noses together so sweetly, and Sherlock gave another choked off sob and buried his face beneath John’s neck, resting his head on John’s solid chest and listening to the comforting _thump-thump-thump_ of a heart well loved, trying to control his quaking breathing as his emotions rushed in turmoil within his body.

John looked down at the curly haired mop of a head on his chest, allowing a few silent tears to fall down his cheeks before sniffling and reaching a hand up to muss the already wild curls.

They stayed that way for a handful of uncountable moments, in the silence of their bed where they had made love only hours before, and held one another. And if there was a wetness that gathered on John’s chest, or in Sherlock’s curls, neither man mentioned it.

After all, they were both weeping for the same reason: relief, overpowering emotions, an all-consuming love that left them both breathless and filled at the same time. Complete. 

 

* * *

  

And so the Golden Prince and the Beauty lived happily ever after.

The End. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we do have to have a wedding scene in a classic romance :) Kudos/comments appreciated


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Beauty and the Beast coming out today, I wanted to add one more small addition to this story. This was my first long Sherlock fanfiction, and I am so happy so many people have enjoyed it.  
> Cheers,  
> DPS  
> See my tumblr for new stories and updates:
> 
>  
> 
> <http://alwaysgryffindorish.tumblr.com/post/158476020370/rose>  
> 

"Sherlock, she wont eat her dinner if you keep giving her treats," John called out across the dining room, watching his husband serendipitously fed their daughter cookies and rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.

Sherlock's head popped up from where he was talking to Rosie in surprise, and was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, quite literally. 

John stood up and walked over, placing a kiss on Rosie's forehead and then Sherlock's, his heart swelling at the sight of his two little hellions getting into their usual mischief. Since marrying Sherlock, John's life had been just about perfect.

Sherlock set up a chemistry lab in one of the many bedrooms in the castle, and attempted to keep the fires to a minimum. And while he didn't always succeed, John was always amused to see Sherlock's hair blown wild, his eyes sheepish as he explained to John how the particular chemical reactions blew up. Alongside his work, Sherlock helped Molly tutor Rosie, taking her daily out into the gardens to point out botanical life during the day and the solar system at night with a telescope. 

When John asked why someone like Sherlock would care about the solar system, the younger man just looked at him with twinkling eyes and said, "I can appreciate beauty in many things, even when beauty is difficult to see or understand."

That night they made love, slowly, achingly passionate, until Sherlock was quite overtaken by pleasure and fell into a blissful sleep with John still throbbing inside of him. John came moments later, falling asleep still inside his lover and held him in a tight embrace until the next morning. 

Blinking away the slight stinging in his eyes at his good fortune, John teasingly reprimanded Sherlock, "you two shouldn't be allowed to sit together, sometimes I feel like I have two children instead of one."

Sherlock flushed slightly at that, huffing to cover up his embarrassment, "come now, John, it was just a couple of cookies."

Observing his young lover for a moment longer, John couldn't control the grin that spread across his face. Sherlock was simply adorable, even after months of marriage, John was still able to make him blush like the first time. 

"Daddy," Rosie called, chocolate spread across her face much to her delight as she pounded her small hands on the table, "don't take my cookies."

"I won't darling, but no more before dinner," John chuckled, watching the soon to be five year old giggle in delight and continue to munch on her cookies with a determination only children possess.

"I adore you," John whispered to his husband, leaning down to give Sherlock a quick kiss.

Sherlock, however, had a different idea. Clutching John close to him, Sherlock traced the seam of John's lips with his tongue, seeking entrance which John gave with a low groan. Sherlock slide his velvety tongue into John's mouth, the two of them sucking and gently nipping at one another's mouth, both feeling the first throbs of arousal swirling in their groins as they continued to passionately kiss. 

"Daddy, stop that!" 

The two men broke apart, breathing slightly unevenly as they turned to look at the now indignant four year old who had crossed her chocolate covered arms in annoyance. 

"It's rude to kiss at the table, Mrs. Hudson said so," she parroted, and John and Sherlock glanced at one another sheepishly.

This was certainly not the first time the two men had become- _ahem_ \- carried away by their love, and due to that, a few ground rules had been established by Mrs. Hudson and the others where physical affection in public was concerned.

Coincidentally, the two men had spent more time in their bedchambers than ever before. 

"Sorry, darling, you're right," John nodded, making sad eyes at his daughter until she leapt out of her chair and raced over, placing a wet kiss on John's cheek and then Sherlock's.

"There, now we all gave kisses and broke the rules," Rosie declared.

The two men laughed, scooping up the little girl the cradle between them, nuzzling into her and each other's embrace. They were a family, and ridiculously happy. 

All was well. 


End file.
